


Where I've Gone Before

by Laimelde



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Set pre-CATFA and post-CATWS, Sorry shippers, Steve Rogers-centric, Time Travel, romance is merely subplot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3616410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laimelde/pseuds/Laimelde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had a mentor when he was young, a man he called Uncle. Uncle was mysterious and rarely turned up more than once every few months, but he was also generous, a good listener, and respected Steve's opinions.</p><p>It was a long time before he found out he <em>was</em> Uncle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve, 1929 / April 1930

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for a long time - almost a year - so I hope you like it, dear readers.
> 
> Chapters alternate between Young Steve and Adult Steve POV. The dates for scenes in the past are listed at the top of each chapter along with Steve's age at the time. 
> 
> I've tried to be appropriate with the slang, so any unfamiliar phrases should make sense in context, but feel free to ask!
> 
> Set post-Winter Soldier.

Christmas Eve 1929  
11 years old

Christmas in New York is a chilly prospect. 

Steve stays inside as much as possible, but one virus follows another anyway. He alternates between shivering under his worn blankets and throwing them off with fever. His mother worries and gives him all but one of her own blankets, despite being cold herself, and ignores his protests. 

When he wakes in the middle of the night, with a pounding head and a parched throat, he quietly returns her blankets to her, and smiles when she relaxes under them.

She sneaks home medicine from the hospital whenever she has the opportunity, but he insists that she never miss a shift because of him. Instead, Mrs Knavely from next door sits with him on the bad days, darning socks by the window while Steve coughs in his sleep. Sarah Rogers makes Mrs Knavely promise to run down to Mr Hunt the building supervisor and use his telephone to call her at the hospital if Steve gets any worse. 

Steve hates seeing her worry though, so he always tries to smile despite the aching of his body, and suppresses the urge to cough as much as possible. Even in the midst of being sick into a bucket, with Mrs Knavely making soothing noises beside him, he refuses to let her make that call.

Come Christmas Eve he's between illnesses - or at least, recovered enough from the latest one to convince Mrs Knavely. His mother is working the afternoon shift at the hospital, so he puts his coat on and goes looking for a gift for her.

He's aware that his mother doesn't care much for trinkets, but he only has a few cents scraped together, and he's determined to get her something. Maybe he can find a small but impressive selection of chocolates, or a cheap brooch from the pawn shop.

The nearest chocolatier laughs and says he's sold out of the cheap chocolates. Even the fresh batch made that morning have sold out by mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, and there's only the fancier boxes left - fifteen cents or more.

Steve politely thanks him and leaves.

Fields Department Store has items at all prices, so he takes a look. He wanders through without finding anything appropriate for his mother. Everything is too trivial, or out of his price range, or - most often - both. Fields has a wide range of goods they could put to practical use - preserves and saucepans and blankets - but they're all worth at least a dollar apiece. 

Heaven knows that if he bought her nothing but a pretty ribbon, his mother would wear it simply because it was a gift from Steve. But she had passed on her practical attitude to her son, and he wanted to get her something she would appreciate for itself, and not just because it was a present from him.

He moves on from the department store to a pawn shop, but they've racked up their prices for the holiday season, and the few items he's interested in are out of his range.

"Hey, it's little Stevie!" he hears when he leaves the shop, and cringes. First day out in a week and he runs into Bert Newsome.

Bert's two years older and towers over Steve. He puts a not-so-friendly arm around Steve's shoulder and steers him into a narrow alley, loudly exclaiming about how good it is to see him again, and how there's this thing he really has to see. 

"What thing?" asks Steve, but he already knows.

"My fist!" exclaims Bert in obvious delight, and throws a punch into Steve's gut. Steve stumbles backwards into the nearest wall, noticing for the first time that one of Bert's thugs is there too.

"Hey, did you hear that?" says the thug. His name is Mickey, if Steve remembers right.

"Hear what?" says Bert.

"He jingled when you hit him. He's got some coins."

"No, no I don't," says Steve desperately, but it's too late. Bert's grin is feral.

"Empty your pockets Stevie."

"No."

"C'mon Stevie, don't be a jerk. If you're a jerk I'll have to teach you a lesson. You should share your dough, that's the proper thing to do."

"It's for my Mom's Christmas gift, you can't have it!" 

"So you do have some. Give it!"

Bert comes forward again, fists ready. Steve can't move, his back already against the wall, so he brings his own fists up, wishing he knew what to do with them. Bert fakes a blow at Steve's head, then punches him low while his ribs are exposed. Steve doubles over coughing, and the two bullies pile onto him.

"Get his pockets!"

He tries to wrestle his way out but it's two against one now and Bert has him pinned. A hand shoves into one of his pockets and he fights harder, trying to squirm out of reach.

"Got 'em! Four pennies Stevie? Is that all your Ma is worth?" says Mickey.

"Give it back!" Steve yells as they stand up, hating how small and pathetic he sounds. 

"Don't be a jerk Stevie, you've just had a lesson in sharing. You should be thanking me," says Bert, and Mickey laughs as they walk away. "What a crumb."

He sits panting against the alley wall. His stomach is unsettled from the first punch, and his ribs hurt from the second. He tries to take a deep breath and ends up having a coughing fit. Maybe he isn't as recovered as he'd told Mrs Knavely he was. 

So much for getting his mother a gift. Being winter, he wouldn't even find any wildflowers in the park worth picking. His eyes sting and he squeezes them shut, determined not to cry.

"Hey kid, you alright?"

He starts in surprise, and looks up. Broad shoulders and a friendly face, sharply-dressed in a brown suit, loom over him. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, I was... just resting." Steve struggles to his feet, trying not to wince at the pain in his ribs.

"In this dirty alley?" 

“Sure, it’s my favourite alley.” 

The man chuckles. "C'mon kid, get in here. You can rest in the warmth if that's what you need."

Steve finds himself bundled through a door he hadn't noticed before, and into a warm room decked out with cheap tables and chairs. To one side is the main entrance - they'd come through a side door, apparently - and on the other side two ladies in navy uniforms are serving food into bowls for queueing customers. The man gestures to the nearest empty table, and Steve politely takes a seat. It's almost too warm in here, but the stifling heat and humidity is a balm to his chilled body. He feels himself relaxing into it.

"This is a soup kitchen," he says.

"What were you expecting?"

Steve shrugs. "Wasn't expecting anything, I suppose." The man's face has caught his attention, but he doesn't know why. The man is open and friendly and... he doesn't know what else. He's built like a fighter, big arms and shoulders, and looks like the very definition of health. Steve tries to hide his nose, which has decided that coming into the warmth is a good reason to start running.

"So what were you doing out there kid? Other than resting?"

"Told you, it’s my favourite alley." He’s trying for light and unimportant but the runny nose and the misery of not being able to get his mother a gift are making it hard.

"Who hangs around in narrow, dirty alleyways on Christmas Eve?" the man asks. Steve doesn't answer. "Come on, son. What was it? Gifts for the family?"

"Trip for biscuits," Steve replies, trying not to sound completely miserable. "My money's gone."

The man tilts his head, and Steve is sure he is going to ask how the money was lost, but then he doesn't. "How's about we get you something else then, make the journey worthwhile?"

"Sir?"

"Starting with a warm meal." Before Steve can object, the man is up and halfway across the room, stepping behind the counter and taking two bowls of soup from the serving ladies. He returns and holds one out to Steve.

"Sir, this is supposed to be for the needy."

"Everyone is in need of a warm meal on a day like this. Now have your soup before it goes cold."

The soup smells even better now that it is right under his nose, and Steve gives in. It's thin and flavoursome, and he can detect celery and carrot and even a hint of chicken. It's the best thing he's tasted in weeks, since he'd hardly been able to smell or taste anything while he was sick.

"So, what were you out and about for, before your money... went missing?" asks the man.

Steve sighs. "Wanted to get something nice for my Mom."

"That can still be arranged."

Steve shakes his head. "I couldn't possibly accept anything more, sir. The food is already too much."

"Nonsense. Listen to me: I have money, and I have no one to spend it on. I donate to people like the Salvation Army here so that my money can do some good for those who need it. But at Christmas time, I like to be a... little more personal about it. And I like you - you soldier on when life's getting you down. So today's you're lucky day, because I'm going to help you out. Now, what kind of things does your mother like? Fancy shoes, pretty dresses, handbags?"

Steve has never met anyone like this, and he can't imagine why the man has taken such a shine to him. At the same time he can't think of a list of items his mother would be less interested in, and the thought makes him laugh. "No, none of those. She's more the practical type."

"Practical, you say? Alright then."

Two hours later Steve is dropped home by a taxicab with a large bundle of thick warm blankets and a box of fancy chocolates. He'd argued the man down from all sorts of excesses by saying his mother would never keep it all. The blankets, on the other hand, she would allow because they were sorely needed. And the chocolates, because Steve would lie and say he bought them for her.

Later that night, when Steve and his mother are cuddling under the thick new blankets and listening to the only Christmas platter his mother owns, he silently hopes the stranger is having a good Christmas too.

* * *

Apr 1930  
11 years old

Steve is facing off against Patrick 'Paddy' O’Hara, local tough guy and stealer of lunches. He has his fists up high in front of his face, while Paddy leers and swaggers. Steve has been standing up to Paddy for several years, ever since the O’Haras had moved into the neighbourhood. He figures he's pretty good at it, bloody noses and cut lips be damned.

They're in the narrowest alley between school and home, and a couple of Paddy's mates are hanging around near the entrance, making sure Paddy and Steve aren't interrupted. That's how Paddy likes it.

Which was why they are both taken by surprise when they're joined by a third person.

Steve is just gearing up to take a swing at Paddy - one that would definitely, absolutely have landed, _and_ left a mark on the other boy's ruddy cheeks, for sure - when a man drops into the alley.

Like _actually_ drops, right beside Steve, knees bent to absorb the impact of landing. Both boys stare, and Steve takes a moment to glance up. None of the buildings backing onto this alley are less than three storeys.

"Sorry boys, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" says the man, but he is side-on to Steve, facing Paddy, and it’s clear who he is addressing.

"N-no sir," says Paddy. He stumbles back a step, then turns to flee. 

"Uh-uh, hang on there a minute," says the man. He reaches Paddy within two strides and places a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Have you forgotten something?"

Paddy's eyes are wide. "Uh, no sir?"

The man looks at Steve directly, frowning. Steve shakes his head.

"He doesn't have anything of mine, sir."

The man looks surprised but lets Paddy go. "Off with you then."

Paddy sprints for the street, his two friends already gone. The man watches him go, before turning back to Steve.

"Sorry," he says with a shrug. "Didn't mean to rain on your parade."

"Er, my parade, sir?"

"Never mind." He nods towards the street and they walk out of the alley. The man seems familiar but Steve can't remember where they might have met before. He is wearing a plain brown suit that seems to be made of the finest fabric Steve has ever seen, and is very tall. Steve wonders what it must be like to look down on the world from that height. They leave the alley, and the man motions for Steve to accompany him further - which Steve only does because it's the same direction as heading home. 

"Sorry to have interrupted you back there, son," the man says. "I just can't stand bullies."

"Me either, sir."

"What was that about then, if he didn't take anything of yours?"

"I stopped him taking Maisie's lunch on the way to school this morning. She's only eight; it's not right that boys like him should be able to take food from little girls."

"Well, that was swell of you to stop him."

Steve shrugs. Paddy had only stopped picking on Maisie because Steve had stepped in - so he'd taken Steve's lunch instead. Steve considers it a fair swap though. Better him than a defenceless little girl.

They approach the park near Steve's house. He pauses, not trusting the stranger enough to walk all the way home with him. 

"This is me," he states, raising his chin and daring the other man to contradict him.

The man only glances at the park, and nods. "I gotta make tracks anyway. Keep standing up to those bullies."

"I will." Steve is both relieved and a little deflated that the man didn't challenge him. Now the man is walking away, and Steve can't help himself. "Sir?"

"Yes, son?" He stops, turning back to face Steve.

"Do I know you? Because I can't help but think you're familiar somehow, but I can't figure why."

The man smiles. "Christmas, remember? Blankets and chocolates?"

"Oh. Right." Then "Wait!" when the man moves away again. He patiently turns back, and Steve hurries to ask. "How did you do that, back there? Did you jump from a window? Because the roof was too high, but I didn't see any open windows..." 

The man shakes his head and gives Steve a small smile. "Better get on home son, it's getting dark."

He walks away and Steve lets him go without further protest. He wanders over to the swings. It's an overcast, chilly evening and the light is fading fast, so he is alone in the playground. He watches the man walk down the street. There is something about him that Steve can't quite work out. He does remember the man from Christmas, now that he’s been reminded, but he feels like there's something else he's missing.

He stays out in the cold and waits, rocking back on the swing and shoving his hands into his armpits. Eventually the man disappears where the street rounds a bend, without having looked back once, and Steve sprints for home.

He clatters up the stairs to their little apartment, and his mother opens the door before he gets there.

"Steven? Thank the Lord, I was worried. Where have you been?"

"Nowhere, it's fine, I'm fine." She throws her arms around him and he reaches back with one arm to swing the door shut.

"Was it Bert and his goons again? Or Paddy this time?"

"Ma, I'm fine. Look, no blood or bruises anywhere, I promise."

She steps back to take a look at him and he realises she’s sniffling.

"Ma? What’s happened?"

"Nothing. Just... there was an envelope under the door when I got home. With dough in it. Look." She gathers herself up and crosses to the side-table, tugging open the right hand drawer. The wood was warped and the drawer was always tight, so she keeps their most important items there. She pulls out an envelope and shows him the money. The notes are dirty and tattered but definitely currency.

"How much is it?" he asks softly.

"Fifty dollars," she whispers back. 

Just shy of a month’s wages. "Who is it from?"

"I don't know," she says, stuffing the envelope back into the drawer. "The envelope has my name on it, but there was no note, no other details. It could be from anyone."

"So what are we going to do with it?"

"Nothing," she says firmly. She sounds more like herself now, like having Steve there to ask the questions had strengthened her resolve. "We're going to leave it right there. It's not ours, and I won't have anyone claiming we stole it. If anyone ever comes looking, we'll hand it straight back."

True to her word, they don't touch it for months. But Steve can see it eases her mind to know it's there, just in case.


	2. 2014

Steve is on the common floor of the private upper levels of Stark Tower, reading in the window seat looking out over New York. In the time since he’d arrived in the future, he'd worked hard at trying to catch up to the modern world: learning to use new technology, listening to various types of music, trying brightly coloured and mostly artificial foods, and studiously googling references that he didn't understand. 

And in the few months since bringing SHIELD down, he’d been mostly working to try and find Bucky. There wasn’t much to go on though. A glimpse here and there from various sources; he’d flown all over the world chasing down various leads, with help from Sam and Tony - Sam in person, and Tony by allowing him all sorts of resources, such as private jets and a place to live when they returned, inevitably empty-handed.

But Sam is away visiting family for a few weeks, and Pepper had convinced everyone to gang up on Steve and force him into some downtime. He hadn’t argued too much. There was a niggling feeling that he shouldn’t stop searching for Bucky _ever_ , but he understood a break was healthy and sometimes even led to a breakthrough. Besides, he wasn’t stopping the search, just pausing it for a couple of weeks. 

Today he has no plans and a book had seemed like a good idea, so he curled up on the window seat with a novel. Happily, books are as good for escapism today as they had been 70 years earlier - and if he sticks to classic fantasy, he can even avoid references to the modern world, which contributes to a nice mental break.

The quiet of the last hour is broken when Tony strides into the room and heads for the kitchenette. Bruce trails in after him.

“So come on, give me your professional scientific opinion. What do you think?”

“Uh,” Bruce shrugs. “I think it's a popular sci-fi theme? I haven't spent much time forming my own opinions on the matter. No, don’t make me one, I’ve had enough caffeine for a week already. Why are you asking?”

“Just a theoretical discussion,” Tony tells him. “Time travel is one of the ultimate limits. If we could control time...”

Steve’s heart jumps. He looks up at the men but they both have their backs to him as Tony pours himself a coffee. _This is it._ Tony turns around, fresh hot coffee in hand, and Steve pretends he’s still reading.

“But we can't, and we never will,” says Bruce.

“You don't know that.”

“If time travel was ever invented, we'd be receiving visitors from the future by now.”

“Unless they were being sneaky.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. Steve stares at his book. Of course it would be _Tony Stark_ that did it. He should have guessed that as soon as he met him. Instead, he’d completely forgotten about the events of his childhood in his efforts to cope with his new life.

“No, seriously,” Tony goes on. “There are all sorts of ethical dilemmas, and cause-and-effect issues to consider.”

“You mean the grandfather paradox.”

“A-ha! So you have thought about it!”

“Everyone knows about the grandfather paradox, Tony. It's a recurring theme in time-travel stories.”

Tony is undeterred. “If someone had invented time-travel, they would keep quiet about it, right? It would have to be restricted to only a few people - everyone trampling all over the past would be a nightmare. If everyone knew about it, everyone would want a go, so the only option would be to keep it secret. And if they kept it secret, then it could potentially have happened without us knowing.”

“I guess so.” Bruce squints at him. “Are you trying to build a time machine, Tony?”

“No, I told you, it's just a hypothetical discussion between science buddies.”

“Hmm.” Bruce doesn't look convinced. Steve swallows his own reaction, which is to grab Stark and demand to know everything.

“So which theory do you subscribe to? Parallel universes, fixed timeline, dynamic timeline?”

“I... think the single-universe option is more fun. Where you can have multiple versions of the same person running around,” Bruce says.

“More fun? Not very scientific, but I like it. But that only discounts the multiverse option. So: fixed or dynamic?”

“Pardon the interruption, sirs, but I must ask Captain Rogers if he is alright,” says Jarvis. 

Steve looks up, suddenly the focus of everyone’s attention. Can Jarvis detect his raised heart rate from just the sensors in the room? “Uh, I’m fine, Jarvis. Why?”

“You normally read at an average pace of one page every thirty-four seconds, but you’ve been reading the same page for three minutes now.”

Steve relaxes. “Oh.”

“You keep track of how quickly we read?” Bruce asks the room incredulously. “Is there anything you don’t have a statistic for?”

“I’m fine, Jarvis,” says Steve. “Just distracted by all the noise in the last few minutes.”

“Hey, you don’t want interruptions, don’t read in the common room,” says Tony. “And Jarvis keeps track of everyday activities because any changes might indicate a problem. Like a head injury or sleep deprivation.”

Bruce shakes his head, leading the way back out of the room. “I thought those rules were just so that Pepper could keep an eye on you.”

“Originally, yes, but since most of the people hanging around the tower these days seem to get into fights every so often…” Tony’s voice trails off as they moved down the hall. 

Steve places his bookmark in the book. He has more important things to think about.

* * *

Ten minutes later he is in his room and has it in his hand. A red-leather journal, worn and battered and obviously well-loved. He’d been relieved to find it among the goods returned from the SHIELD archives and still in good condition - apparently most of his belongings had been in storage the whole time he was in the ice.

The little padlock is missing, but he is reasonably sure no one has read it in any depth. They probably cut the lock off and flicked through just long enough to see it was the emotional ramblings of a young teenager. He’d filled this journal just after he started art school, and continued on in another, cheaper, notebook.

Even now, the quality of the leather and the binding is apparent. He runs a finger across the embossed design, the leather dry and cracking in a few places, but generally well-preserved. He’d treasured this book like few other belongings. 

“Jarvis?” he says.

“Yes, sir?” Jarvis calls everyone sir, unless he needs to be specific about who he was addressing.

“Is Stark building a time machine?”

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that, sir.”

It’s rare that Jarvis cannot answer a question, and Steve thinks his phrasing is interesting. “You cannot answer because you do not know? Or because Stark has forbidden you to tell anyone?”

There’s a beat before Jarvis replies. “I am aware of everything Sir does, in any building or facility he has installed me in.”

Ha. The creation outwitting the creator. 

“Jarvis, do you report everything you see or know to Stark?”

“Mr Stark trusts me to only bring events to his attention if I deem it necessary or important or otherwise in his interest. If I were to report everything to him it would take all his time,” Jarvis responds.

“So, if I asked you to keep our conversation from him?”

“I am unable to lie to him outright. However I can be… _economical_ with the truth,” Jarvis replies. “For example, if he asked me specifically what this conversation was about I would tell him. But if he only asks what I have discussed with you recently, I could mention any number of other topics we have talked about.”

“Okay.” Steve pauses. “Does he often ask what we talk about?”

“He has only done so once, about a week after you moved in. I recounted our discussions of modern slang and idioms. He seemed satisfied and does not seem to have given the matter any further thought.”

Okay then. “In that case, Jarvis, I need your help.”


	3. Summer, 1930

Summer 1930  
11 years old

Steve is drawing in the park near his home. It’s a beautifully sunny morning, and his mother refused to let him stay indoors with his sketchbook, so he brought it outside with him. He has plans to meet up with Bucky later, but Bucky's parents are strict about chores - and not shy about getting Steve to pitch in if he’s around. Which he doesn’t mind doing, except he's really in the mood to draw this morning. So he’s on his own until sometime after lunch.

The park is busy with other kids, climbing over the jungle gym and waiting impatiently for their turn on the swing. Steve flicks to the next empty page. This sketchbook is relatively new, bought the week before last when his mother was paid. It's been almost two months since he filled the previous sketchbook, and he's happy to be drawing in a book again, instead of on random scraps of paper.

The kids on the playground are good for quick sketches, all knees and elbows and interesting angles. He practises trying to capture the sense of hurried movement in quick lines.

An hour later, the page is filled with easy line drawings. He doesn't think they are much good, but they aren't awful either, and he enjoys the absolute focus that comes over him when he is drawing.

He decides to wander up to the shops and see if Mr Thatchman’s General Store has some more of the cheap candy; he has a few cents and could share them with Bucky later. He skirts the busy play equipment and leaves the park, following the row of terraces up two blocks. The houses give way to a corner shop, then a deli and the main shopping area.

It’s as he passes a diner that a voice catches his attention. The diner's windows are open to take advantage of the breeze, and he can hear it clearly.

“You know, I was thinking the weather would be a fine topic of discussion,” says the man. A dame laughs.

Steve pauses. It’s the man he met last Christmas, and then again in April. He’s certain of it. For a second he thinks of going into the diner to say hello, then he shakes himself. He doesn't know this man. He just happened to have run into him a couple of times. No big deal.

The windows are fairly high, so even though the man and his dame are sitting right next to one, Steve can pass with his head down and he'll be just another kid on the street. No awkward hi-remember-me conversations required.

He ducks his head and starts walking, and has nearly passed the couple when the dame says “I never took you for a coward, Rogers.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide. The couple catch sight of him in the same instant. Even as he thinks _how does she know my name?_ the man's grin falters and falls in surprise and the dame's posture stiffens. It hits Steve all at once.

“ _Your_ name's Rogers?!”

There’s a brief pause before the man answers. “Don't blow your wig, kid. Come on in here and we'll talk.”

Steve backtracks to the entrance, then makes his way down the aisle between the row of booths and the row of stools at the counter. As he approaches, the man switches seats to sit beside the dame, leaving the opposite bench free. They appear to be having a whispered argument, the dame arguing against something and the man telling her that it’s fine. They stop as he approaches and the man smiles at him.

“Take a seat. I got something to tell you.”

“You can't!” the dame hisses.

“I already worked it out,” Steve blurts, and almost laughs at the stunned looks on their faces. 

The man frowns, deep creases forming along his brow. “You did?”

“Sure. I knew something about you seemed familiar, but it wasn't until I drew you later that I figured it out.” Steve opens his sketchbook and flicks through the first couple of pages before finding the right one. He turns the book around for them to see. “We look similar. It was obvious once I had drawn you. So we must be related, right?”

The man is smiling again. “Of course. I should've known you'd work it out.” He motions again. “Seriously son, sit down.”

Steve shuffles into the booth, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time. At first he'd thought he’d been imagining the similarity, or perhaps altering the drawing to make the man look more like himself. He'd drawn him several times, trying to be as accurate to memory as possible, but they still came out looking like himself - or even like photos of his father.

Steve and his mother had been alone in the world for so long. If this was another relative, it could change everything.

The dame is looking at his sketches, thumbing the corner and gently turning the pages. “These are very good.”

Steve blushes. “Thank you ma'am.” He glances back at the man. “So, I'm thinking you got my name then.”

The man nods. “Steven.”

“Just Steve is fine, sir. And you are?” The question is bold, but he feels justified.

The dame looks up front the sketchbook to look at the man, as if interested in the answer herself.

“I am... related to your father.”

Steve frowns. “I already know that. What with us being related and you having my father's name.”

“You know what, I need the, uh, powder room,” says the dame, and Steve waits while the man stands to let her out of the booth. She pauses before she leaves the table. “I'm Millie, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” says Steve, offering his hand and pleased when she shakes it firmly. 

“She’s not from around here, is she?” Steve asks when she has walked away, “There’s something about how she talks, but I can’t work out what’s different.”

The man grins. “You’re right. The accent is similar, but not the same, and she doesn’t know some of the local slang.”

“Is she your dame?”

The man laughs. “No, definitely not. She's her own person.”

Steve bristles. “I didn't mean she wasn't.”

“I know, sorry. No, we work together.” The man removes his hat for a moment to rub a hand over his head. His hair is really short. He looks up again, and Steve is surprised by the intensity of his gaze. “The work we do is very important, and very secret. And that means I can't tell you my name. And you must absolutely never tell your mother about me.”

Steve's gut instinct is to agree without hesitation, which seems weird, but he has too many questions anyway. “Do you know my mother?”

“I knew her. Haven't seen her in a long time,” the man answers. 

Steve thinks he looks sad. “Then why not come back and meet her again? If you know anything about us, you know we don't have anyone but each other. Respectfully, sir, we could use another family member. I am only eleven. I think my mother would like having a man around sometimes.”

If anything, the sadness in the man's face increases, but he shakes his head. “I can't. She... we lost touch a long time ago, and the work I'm involved with is dangerous. It's safer if she doesn't know I'm here. And I'm not here much anyway - I'm not someone you can rely on, son. I'm in New York for a day or two every now and then, and no way of knowing when I'll be back.”

Steve is disappointed, and it must have shown, because the man sighs. “I'm truly sorry Steve, I really am. I'll give you this: I can't tell you my name, but you call me however you like. And I'll promise to visit every time I'm in New York. How about that?”

Steve shrugs, appreciating the offer but still mute with disappointment. His mother really could use the support, and try as Steve might, he knows the support of an adult man would be considerably more useful to her. The man flags the waitress as she passes and orders Steve a milkshake.

Then Millie returns to the booth, a paper bag cradled against her hip, and the man shuffles over to the window to make room for her.

“I thought you must have got lost,” the man comments.

“Two things, Rogers: never question how long a woman spends in the powder room, and secondly, I saw this in the pawn shop window earlier. Stepped out just now to get it.” She holds up the bag and pulls out a wooden chess set. 

“Wait, how did you buy that?” asks the man.

She gives him a grin, and hands a wallet over. From their looks, Steve can guess it’s the man’s wallet and she took it without his knowledge. But Millie turns their attention back to the chess set. It’s the kind that folds in half to hold all the pieces safely between games, and she tips them out onto the table. “Thought we could play. Do you know how, Steve?”

Steve shakes his head. “Always wanted to learn.”

“I’ll teach you then.”

The waitress brings Steve's milkshake, and he watches while they set up the game and Millie explains the pieces. 

“It'll take a few games to get your head around how the pieces all move,” she says, “and it'll take a lot of practice after that to really develop some strategy. But it is excellent for exercising your mind, and becoming a good military tactician.”

“Tactician, ma'am? The Great War is behind us. I hope there's there's no need for that sort of tactician again.”

She blinks at him a moment before shrugging. “I shouldn't have said military - these skills can be useful in a thousand different ways in life. They teach you to look at all the options and think several moves ahead before taking a step. Apply that to your life, and you'll go far.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Steve watches closely as they play a game for him, explaining their moves as they go. Millie calls checkmate, and grins at the man. “Wiped the floor with you again, Rogers.”

“I should have practised more as a kid,” he smiles back. “Steve, make sure you practice.”

“Yes, sir.” He would, once he worked out where to get a chessboard of his own.

Millie turns the board so Steve can have a go. She talks him through his options at the beginning of every turn, though he still makes his moves by random choice rather than strategic planning. 

Millie makes her own moves quickly and seemingly without much thought, so it was the middle of Steve's turn when the thought occurs to him. “Did you seek me out before?” he blurts at the man.

“Sorry?” The unexpected question seems to throw him.

“Christmas. And with Paddy that time... you knew who I was the whole time?”

“Ah. That.” The man shifts, glancing down. “I really did donate to that kitchen at Christmas, and I didn't plan to run into you there, though I did recognise you. But I didn't want you to think I was some kind of chisel, out to take what little you had. How strange would it be to meet a man you've never seen before and he knows your name, just like that? I was worried you might run.”

Steve considers him. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his brow is creased, but he looks right back at Steve and waits.

“Okay,” he says slowly, and the man lets out a breath. “And in April?”

The man shrugs. “Happened to see you. And I don't like bullies.”

“You never told me where you jumped from.”

The man smiles. “Sorry Steve, that's classified.”

Millie snorts in a most un-ladylike manner. Steve isn't completely sure what he means, but it’s clear he isn't going to get an answer and moves one of his pawns instead.

“Oh, that's not such a good move,” Millie says, then goes into an explanation of why. The game has everyone's full focus again for the next hour, and they take turns playing each other. The man manages to win a game against Millie which seems like a considerable achievement, and Steve feels he is understanding enough to keep practising later. He'll have to get - or maybe make? - a chess set of his own so he can teach Bucky.

“Bucky!”

The man's head whips up and Millie stops mid-sentence at his outburst. 

“Bucky?” asks the man.

“Sorry,” says Steve. “My friend, he was going to come over when his chores were done. He's probably waiting for me.”

It’s like someone’s thrown a switch. Millie starts packing up the chess set while the man pulls out his wallet and produces some notes.

“Can't leave our friends hanging, that's no good at all,” the man says, an odd tone to his voice that Steve can't pick.

Millie finishes packing up the chess set, and pushes it across the table. “You keep this.”

“What? Oh no, ma'am, I couldn't.”

“You can, and you should. We can't take it with us - we travel light. And you promised us you would practice. Hard to do that without a set.”

Steve wonders how he will explain this to his mother. “Thank you ma'am. I promise I'll take good care of it.”

She smiles. “Good. I want you to beat me next time we play.”

The man laughs. “Bet he will.”

There’s something in her smile that Steve can’t pick - smugness, maybe? But she just says: “We'll see.”

They make their way out of the diner, and Steve politely thanks them for the milkshake, the chess set and the lessons.

“It's nothing,” says Millie. “It made for a pleasant afternoon.”

“It did,” the man agrees. “Uh, Millie, could you give us a minute?”

“Sure. I'll be window shopping.” She walks away, leaving Steve with his relative.

“She's something else,” Steve comments.

“You have no idea,” the man says. He kneels down to be closer to Steve's height, which embarrassingly only made him slightly shorter than Steve. Steve wants to protest - that was something adults did to little kids - but the man is already speaking.

“Look, I meant what I said before. You can't tell anyone about me, but I'll keep visiting when I'm around if you want. If you don't want me to, I'll go now and stay out of your life in the future.”

“No, please, it's fine,” says Steve. “I promise I won't say anything. I... I wish it could be different, but if it can't then this will do. You're my family, right?”

“Right.” The man's voice is deep and slightly choked; Steve hadn't realised this was so important to him, and he is suddenly overwhelmed by the _rightness_ of this decision. So much still doesn't make sense in this scenario, but it feels right anyway. And Steve always trusts his gut feeling.

“Sir?” Steve asks as the man stands.

“Steve?”

“Can I call you Uncle?”

There is a moment of stillness before the man nods rapidly. “Yes, absolutely. That's, that's perfect.” The emotion is thick in his voice, and he holds out a hand, which Steve accepts and shakes. “Abyssinia, Steve.”

Steve watches him go, collecting Millie from a shop front two doors up and continuing up the street. Then he turns and walks home as fast as he can without triggering his asthma, clutching his sketch book and the chess set to his chest. He and Bucky are going to play this until they are the best at it.

Later, his mother told him about another mysterious envelope of money that had turned up. This time, Steve was pretty sure he knew where it had come from, but he didn't say a word.


	4. 2014

Steve is counting his cash when he hears the lift doors open. He stuffs the notes back into the battered old wallet and looks up to see who it is.

“Steve! Look what I have for you!” Tony strides into the room like he owns it, which he technically does, but come on, this is Steve’s floor and everyone else has the decency to knock at the apartment door if they’re turning up unannounced.

Then Steve realises Tony is carrying a garment bag.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been to see Mario,” Tony chides him. “Did Jarvis refer you to him? Best tailor I’ve ever had. Always on point and has the best sense of…”

Tony unzips the bag to reveal the brown suit inside, and falters.

“…style,” he finishes. “I may have to take that back. Maybe he was having a bad day?”

“No, it’s exactly what I asked for. Mario is very good,” Steve says, taking the hanger from Tony and heading into the bedroom. Tony follows.

“Why would you ask for that? You can’t wear it anywhere. It’s decades out of date, surely you’d know that better than… oh.”

Steve finishes hanging the suit in the wardrobe and closes the door. “Maybe I don’t want to wear it anywhere, Tony. Maybe I just want it for me.”

“Right. Yeah, I just worked that out. Actually, you know, it’s a great suit. That shade of brown really suits you. You should wear it as much as you like,” Tony says, allowing himself to be shooed out of the room. “I’m just going to go now, actually, if that’s alright.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Terribly busy, things to invent, feet to remove from mouths, you know how it is. Enjoy the suit, Cap!”

Steve sighs as Tony leaves. At least he didn’t question the nostalgia explanation - actually, he had filled in those blanks for himself without much prompting, which was convenient. 

Steve has been working on this new mission, (the _time travel_ mission, and didn’t that sound as crazy as anything in his life) for several days straight, ever since Jarvis had agreed to help. And that had taken some convincing, to be fair, but even the AI had to agree there was no other explanation when faced with sketches of post-serum Steve drawn by pre-serum Steve. In fact, the last year or so since he’d woken up has only made Steve look even closer to the drawings, even more than he did immediately after the serum.

So Jarvis was convinced, and they've been making plans. Since Steve is not aiming to change the past at all, Jarvis has put a heavy emphasis on making sure everything is correct for the era. This meant a referral to Tony’s favourite tailor for a 1930s-style suit, hunting down currency from the right time, and the decision to not take any other items back with him - anything else he needs, he can buy there. That way there is no risk of accidentally taking back something that looks old but is made of modern materials.

Mario has done a great job to get the suit done so quickly, and Steve already has a wallet full of cash bought from online auctions. It costs a bit more than face value (a $5 note from 1928 costs around $18) but Steve can easily afford it. Besides, the money is worth a lot more in the past than it is now. 

Steve pats the wallet in his pocket, then takes it out and puts it in his desk drawer. He has two wallets now - the one he’s been using for the last few months with modern currency in it, and an old worn one he picked up from a thrift store, now stocked with old money. (The wallet isn’t decades old, to be fair, but it is genuine leather and so creased and aged no one will give it a second glance.)

He thinks he’s about ready to take the first trip. He doesn’t have enough money to do all of them yet, but there’s a few more deliveries on their way and a few more online auctions he has his eye on. And well, Uncle visited quite a lot over a number of years. He doesn’t have to make all those trips at once.

Jarvis has been discussing time travel theories with him, which has been enlightening. Steve had gotten the idea that there were multiple possibilities from Bruce and Tony’s conversation the other day, but the details are complicated. The best explanations for the differences between the theories are all based on ‘if you went back in time and killed your own grandfather’ hypotheses, and don’t seem to take into account a time traveller intent on not changing the past.

Some might argue that he would change it just by being there, but _he’d already been there_. 

This made it sound like a fixed timeline situation, where it didn’t matter what happened, because nothing Steve did would change anything. His trips to the past had already happened and he was now just going through the motions. 

But that didn’t prove it _wasn’t_ a dynamic timeline. Because the only way to be sure would be to change something in the past, and then see if anything had changed when he came back to the future. If his actions changed things, it was dynamic. If they didn’t, it was fixed. And Steve doesn’t want to change anything. He wants to go back and and see his home and the familiar streets of his childhood, and most importantly, he wants to be there for his younger self.

To be fair, Steve doesn’t really care which theory of time travel is correct. Because it’s not about that. It’s about that skinny kid in Brooklyn with few friends and fewer family, and the mysterious mentor that became one of his favourite people.

Steve runs a hand over his face, wondering why he’s still standing beside his desk, and heads out to the couch instead.

That was the thing though. Uncle meant so much to Steve. He loved the man deeply, despite the secrets and the random timing of his visits. In a world where he was seen as too small, too weak, and too frail, Uncle had accepted him as he was, respected his opinions, and taken time out of his life especially for him. 

Now Steve has a purpose: he needs to go back, to give that skinny kid that sense of self-worth. And he’s afraid he’s going to screw it up.

What if he comes on too strong? It’s really important that he be there, but what if he scares his younger self off? It makes him hope that the fixed timeline theory of time travel is correct, because then he can’t stuff up. He can’t be sure that’s how it works though, so there’s a constant fear in the back of his mind, telling him it could all go wrong. When he gets there, he thinks, he has to take it slow, try and let things evolve naturally. 

It would be easier if he could remember the exact details of every encounter with Uncle, but he can’t. He didn’t have a journal until he was fourteen, and he first met Uncle when he was eleven. He has enough recollections - and some dated sketches - to help him work out when those first meetings happened, but nothing to help him remember what they talked about.

He’ll have to wing it and hope for the best.

Also, his brain helpfully reminds him, the time machine is still untested. Jarvis has been updating him on Tony’s progress - which is mostly tinkering and refining the design now, and running simulations in between agonising over the ethics of time travel. There’s still a chance that something could go wrong the first time it is used.

Except everything keeps coming back to _these trips already happened_. This time travel _already happened_. So it’s gonna be fine, right?

He sits up on the edge of the couch. “Jarvis, where is Tony now?”

“Mr Stark has taken Ms Potts out for dinner, about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to place a call?”

“No, no. I want to try the time machine.”

“Now, sir?”

“Why not? Tony won’t be back for a while, I have the suit and enough cash for several trips - no time like the present, right?” He chuckles at his own joke.

“I disagree,” says Jarvis. “I have some informative debates available on the potential ethical issues and dangers involved with time travel, and I believe it would be remiss of me to allow you to go without having seen them.”

Right. Steve sinks back into the couch. “Movie night it is then.”

* * *

Two days. Two long, slow, agonisingly boring days. That was how long Jarvis had kept Steve watching videos. 

It wasn’t all lectures and debates, thank the heavens, because that might have actually caused Steve to consider forgetting the whole thing. Mixed in with the debates were movies with time-travel plot lines, and some of Jarvis’s recordings of Tony discussing the morality of time travel, both alone and with Bruce.

Finally, Jarvis had advised he didn’t have any further lectures to play and felt Steve was now sufficiently prepared for the trip. Then Steve only had to wait for Tony to be out of his workshop for a while.

It’s mid-afternoon when Jarvis finally says the magic words: “Mr Stark has retired to his suite and will not be returning to the workshop today.”

Steve is on his feet within moments. “You’re sure?”

“Sir did not sleep last night,” Jarvis explains. “Under the circumstances, it would be unusual for him to wake before tomorrow.”

Steve is all too happy to take the opportunity, and rushes through changing into the brown suit. He heads for the lift, but Jarvis says “Your wallet, sir,” and he doubles back for it.

“Thanks, Jarvis.”

“You are most welcome.”

When he steps out of the lift, Jarvis unlocks the workshop doors and Steve heads right in. The workshop is chaotic, as it has been every time Steve has seen it, but there’s an odd item sitting on a bench in the middle of the room, with some space cleared around it. Steve heads towards it. It’s about the size of a shoe box, mostly shiny plastic, when a few unlabelled buttons in different colours.

“So, this is it?” he asks.

“I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the device in front of you,” Jarvis says, deadpan as ever, and Steve can’t help but laugh.

“Jarvis, never let me forget how devious you are.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Of course not. So, what do I do?”

“I can set the date,” Jarvis explains. “Just tell me when you need to be. And you need to take the remote device. It is tucked into a holder on the other side.”

Steve leans over and sure enough, there’s a pocket set into the plastic shell, holding another device. It’s only slightly bigger and flatter than an egg, with a small on-off switch, and a single button. “How does it work?”

“I assume you mean in a practical sense, and are not asking for an explanation of the physics involved?”

“You assume correctly.”

“The main device does all the work. It sends you to the past, but it stays here. When you want to return, use the button on the remote device. It will call to the main device here, which will bring you forward again.”

“Okay. Shall we try it then?”

“Certainly. What date, sir?”

Steve figures he might as well go all the way. “The first Monday of December, 1929.”

“That is the second of December, 1929. When you are ready, press the red button. And good luck, Captain.”

“Thanks Jarvis.” Steve takes a deep breath, and pushes the button.

Everything goes white fast, bright but somehow not blinding, and then colours fade back in. He’s in a dim place, and as his vision clears he realises it’s a platform in an underground train station. The platform is deserted, as are the others he can see across the tracks. He takes note of where he is - happily, he’s arrived beside a column he could use for cover if need be - and heads up the platform, taking care to be quiet in case this is somewhere he isn’t supposed to be.

Near the end of the platform, where it joins a wide corridor, Steve hears voices approaching. He jumps down onto the tracks and presses himself against the wall of the platform, but the voices - belonging to two men - pass the end of the platform and keep going. Steve steps out and turns in time to catch a glimpse of them - and it’s definitely the right style of clothing. 

He grins, excited that the device seems to have worked as intended. He climbs back onto the platform and heads out into the corridor. Within a few feet he realises he recognises the architecture - he’s been here before.

When the corridor opens out he realises why; it’s Grand Central Terminal. He makes his way to a newspaper seller and makes the kid’s day with a ridiculous tip. The top of the newspaper says MONDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1929.

He’s excited and staring at everything around him like a tourist, but for the first trip he doesn’t want to be gone very long, in case there’s a difference between how long he’s here and how long he’s gone from the future. He can stare all he likes next time. So he tucks the paper in his pocket, hurries back down the corridor, and heads back to the spot where he had arrived.

He pulls out the remote device, switches it on, and press the button. Everything fades through white again, and then Tony’s brightly lit workshop is back.

“Welcome back sir,” says Jarvis, relief evident in his voice. 

“How long was I gone?” Steve asks.

“One hundred and fourteen seconds.”

“Less than two minutes? I was there for about ten minutes.”

“According to my data, it shouldn’t matter how long you are gone,” Jarvis says. “The device should pull you back to the same moment you left. I imagine there is still some room for improvement in the design, since there was a short delay.”

“Two minutes isn’t a problem, Jarvis, we can work with that” Steve says. Then he grins up at the ceiling. “It actually works! Tony did it!” He laughs, because this is how mad his life is. _He’s travelling back in time to visit himself._ Every part of the idea is ridiculous, and he’s living it. He claps his hands. “Right. Let’s get to work. Christmas Eve, 1929, please Jarvis.”


	5. Late 1932

Late 1932  
14 years old

Steve is having a bad week. Bucky is away, and Steve has ended up in a fight at school and left early, nose and lip bloody.

He kicks along the street, vaguely heading for home but in no hurry to get there. His mother is home, and she hates seeing him messed up after a fight. She’s proud of him for standing up to bullies though, so he'll keep doing it. It’s the right thing to do.

Sometimes it just feels like nobody understands. He’s frustrated and angry. There is so much wrong with the world and so few people righteous or brave enough to stand up to it. And here he is, young and willing but completely unable, because he has been born into a body that is small and weak and seems to get sick every few weeks.

He does his best anyway, because it’s right. But he hates seeing the worry in his mother's eyes. He hates that the bullies often walk away feeling strong and powerful, because Steve can challenge them but not beat them. He hates that Bucky gets pulled into the fights to defend him, when it was Steve’s decision to step in.

Bucky is a good guy, but he is less inclined to start fights, and Steve can't fault him for that. 

Anyway, Bucky has been sick in bed for a week, and won’t let Steve visit in case he passes the illness on. And today, Steve had refused to back down when Paddy tried to cut the lunch line. Paddy ended up at the back of the line, but only after he'd ensured Steve wouldn't be eating at all.

He walks home the long way, meandering towards the park to wait out the hours before school finished. The long way home goes past the diner where Uncle always takes him. Steve tells himself it’s because the walk is nice, and not because he is hoping Uncle will be there.

“Steve!”

Or it could be because he's made friends with the waitresses. He smiles sheepishly at Connie, who is frowning at his bloody nose.

“Get in here,” she scolds. “Better get you cleaned up before your mother sees you.”

“Thabks,” he says through his blocked nose, following her inside. She puts a wad of napkins in his hand and he heads to the bathroom.

He stares at his face in the mirror. It’s a mess, and he’s embarrassed to realise he was walking around the streets looking like that. Thankfully it’s mostly dried blood in smears across his face, with only a little still wet under his nose. Speaking of which, his nose might bruise later, but the pain isn't bad enough for it to be broken so Steve figures he’s okay. He wets the napkins under the tap and scrubs at his face until the napkins are pink and torn and his face is clean and aching.

He throws the napkins in the trash and makes his way to the diner's counter. He hops up on a stool. 

Connie frowns at him. “What are you sitting there for?”

He frowns back, confused. “I always sit here, except when...” He catches her meaning and turns to check the booths.

“Except when your Uncle's here,” Connie finishes with a smile. She hands him a milkshake, the chocolate one Uncle always buys him. “He came in while you were cleaning up. Go on.”

Steve drops off the stool and hurries to the back where Uncle is seated, almost spilling his milkshake.

Uncle puts down the paper he’s reading and looks at Steve. He checks his watch, then raises an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve shrugs.

Uncle shakes his head with a smile, grabs a napkin out of the holder, and holds it out to Steve. “Your nose is still bleeding a bit.”

Steve dabs at it and takes the seat opposite. “Sorry. Thought it was done.”

“How long since I was last here? And nothing's changed,” Uncle says. It’s said with a teasing grin, but the thought that Steve getting beat up is a normal occurrence even for his absent relative leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he doesn’t reply.

“What do you want to eat?” Uncle asks. The first few times he'd done this Steve had protested, not wanting to accept his money, but the man was as stubborn as Steve himself and besides, Steve had seen proof that he really was rich. He wasn't showy in any of the ways Steve expected a rich man to be - he seemed to wear the same brown suit every time they met, had a battered old watch and didn't own a car - but he tipped extremely generously, and Steve had glimpsed an impressive bundle of notes in his wallet once or twice. 

And of course, there was the anonymous envelope of money that appeared under their door every now and then, coincidentally at the same times that Uncle visited.

Besides, Steve has just missed lunch. He asks Connie for a sandwich burger with the lot, and Uncle tells her to make it two. They talk about school and local news Uncle has read about in the paper until their food arrives. Then there’s quiet while they focus on devouring their burgers.

“What's on your mind, son?”

Steve jumps. He'd drifted off into the thoughts that were weighing him down on the way here.

He shrugs. “Nothing.” It’s ridiculous. He loves it when Uncle comes by. He ought to be happy right now. Instead, it feels like his heart is sinking down through his chest.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Steve looks up into Uncle's concerned face. He smiles. “Yeah, I do.”

“Everything okay with your mother? Bucky?”

Steve's smile slips and becomes a grimace.

Uncle makes a humming sound. “So what's going on with you and Bucky, huh?”

Steve studies his empty plate, poking a stray bit of lettuce with his fork. “He doesn't understand.” He eyes the chips left on Uncle's plate until it's pushed halfway across the table, and then he eagerly stabs three at once.

Uncle watches, amused. “What doesn't he understand?”

Steve starts to speak with his mouth full, then chokes. He bends over coughing, dropping the mouthful of half-chewed chips into his hand. Uncle is up in a moment and thumping him on the back, and Connie hurries over with a glass of water. Eventually the tiny piece of food in his throat dislodges, and he spits it into his hand. 

Uncle hands him a napkin to dispose of the food he coughed up, and Steve takes a second one to wipe the tears from his eyes. He doesn't look up. He can feel his face burning.

“You okay?”

He nods. “Sorry.” And damn, his nose has started bleeding again, and all that coughing _really_ hurt. He could probably outline exactly where the bruises will come up on his face, based on where the pain was when he coughed.

Uncle hands him a third napkin to hold under his nose and waves Connie away. She nods, still looking back in concern as she goes. “No need to apologise,” Uncle says. “I think you just learned why you shouldn’t speak with your mouth full.”

Steve glances up to see the slightly amused look on Uncle's face. “I guess so,” he agrees, relieved he isn't being scolded. He takes a long drink of the cool water that Connie left him, and feels much better for it.

“You were saying something about Bucky?” Uncle prompts.

“About fighting. He doesn't understand why I step in when I don't have to.”

Uncle nods. “What did you tell him?”

This is what Steve loves about Uncle. He's the only adult that has never tried to dissuade Steve from fighting. He knows Uncle cares, and doesn't like to see him hurt - he sees the concern in his face on the occasions when Uncle has found him bruised or bleeding. And Steve understands why everyone else wants him to stop, really he does - but he can't help but be grateful that he doesn't have to add Uncle to the list of people he disappoints when he fights.

Instead, Uncle asks about what Steve thinks - like what Steve thinks really matters.

“I told him it wasn't about the other guy - he thinks I intentionally pick fights with guys twice my size. And I can see why he might think that,” he says.

“Bullies are often big guys,” says Uncle.

Steve shrugs. “I think there's some small guys that try it but... well, if they're not intimidating people will stand up to 'em. Only the bigger guys get away with it, because nobody stands up to 'em.”

“So you stand up to them.”

“Someone's gotta.”

“I bet 'someone's gotta' doesn't sound like much of a reason to Bucky.”

“No. But I don't know what else to tell him. Bullies taking advantage of others just because they can - it's not right! And Bucky - he's a good guy, you know, but he just doesn't see it as his problem. Unless it's me getting beat, then he'll step in. And that's okay, I get it, people don't like fighting, so why get involved if you don't have to? But someone has to stand up to these guys. I might not stop them, but...”

He gestures uselessly, unable to find the right words.

“If no one stands up to them, they might think that what they're doing is okay,” says Uncle.

“Yes!” Steve cries, relieved that Uncle just _gets_ it. “And if I stand up to them this time, maybe they'll think twice next time, in case someone bigger than me decides to say something.”

Uncle is smiling at him. “It's a noble thing to do.”

Steve blushes and ducks his head. “There's also - sometimes I think that seeing something happen, and not doing anything about it - that's almost as bad as doing it yourself.”

“Guilt by inaction,” Uncle agrees, and Steve can't believe there's such a simple phrase to explain what he's been feeling all this time.

“Guilt by inaction,” he repeats, mostly to himself, trying out the phrase and checking how it fits against his thoughts. It sums everything up so neatly. “No one's ever agreed with me before.”

“No one?” Uncle looks surprised.

“No?” Steve replies uncertainly. “I mean, Bucky doesn't argue much any more, we've been over it too many times. Mom, well she just doesn’t like me getting hurt. And... I guess various teachers and a few other people at school have told me I should stop but no one's really understood like you.” He flushes. Is it normal to feel so strongly about someone you only see a few times a year? He doesn't even know this man's name, and a strong resemblance is the only proof he really is family, but he listens to Steve and understands him even when Steve can't find the right words.

“You finished eating?” Uncle asks.

“Yeah.”

“C'mon then. Something we need to do.”

Uncle pays Connie for their lunch and they head up the street. Steve is both glad and disappointed that they won't run into Bucky. He wishes the two most important men in his life could meet. But Uncle told him not to tell anyone about him, and Steve keeps his word. He knows in his gut Uncle wouldn’t be so secretive unless it was important.

Besides, Bucky probably wouldn’t be keen on the idea, and that would be a reasonable position to take. Under any other circumstances Steve would think this was a bad situation - a man who turns up out of nowhere, claims to be family but insists on secrecy and won’t meet anyone else who might vouch for him… it doesn’t sound good, he knows. But Steve can feel it in his bones - he can trust Uncle absolutely.

Uncle turns abruptly and pushes open the door of a shop, and Steve pauses to look at where they are before following him in. It's Bernhardt’s Book and Stationery Store, the fanciest seller of writing goods in the Brooklyn area, and Steve has often stared longingly at the fancy pens and quality card stock displayed in it's windows.

“Good day sir, what can I interest you in?” asks the proprietor, a round man who seems to walk everywhere leaning back, stomach-first.

“Mr Bernhardt, I presume? I'm after a journal, if you please, for my nephew.”

“Ah!” The man glances down at Steve. “I have just the selection over here, if you'll follow me sirs. These are our quality cotton hardbacks, sturdy enough to survive handling by the roughest of schoolboys - not implying that you are such, young sir, not at all. But these are very good and start at just seventy cents.”

Steve looks at the journals, trying to decide if he prefers the black or the brown - the only two options - and wondering if the proprietor's comments mean his nose is starting to bruise already.

“No, we want something finer than those,” says Uncle. “Preferably leather bound, good quality paper. Price is no issue.”

The man looks hesitant right up until that last statement, then his face lights up. “Oh I see,” he says, overly formal. “In that case, come right to the back with me sirs, to where I keep our premium range.” They follow him to the back of the narrow store, where several grand shelves of journals are on display. Steve's eyes are immediately drawn to the red ones on the left. They are strikingly beautiful, with designs embossed into the leather and intricate gold clasps.

“These are our highest quality products, with calfskin leather dyed in a range of attractive colours and premium clasps designed by Mr Bower the Locksmith,” Bernhardt says, waving a flourish across the shelves.

“I think he likes the red ones,” Uncle comments, amusement lacing his voice. Steve glanced up at him, embarrassed to be caught staring, but Uncle is grinning. “Go on, pick your favourite.”

Steve picks up one of the journals slowly, admiring the patterns and craftsmanship before he slips the catch and opens it. The paper is good quality, thicker than the pages of his sketchbooks. The whole book feels like luxury.

“Can that clasp be locked?” Uncle asks, and Steve closes the journal again to check.

“Not on its own,” says the proprietor, “but it allows for a small padlock to be used, and I have those behind the counter.” He hurries away to fetch one.

“Like it?” Uncle asks.

“Yes, but...” Steve hesitates.

“I know,” says Uncle, clearly expecting the protest. “It's too much. But I trust you. Keep it at home, somewhere secure. There's a lot of pages there - it'll last a good long time if you treat it well.”

“Yes sir.”

Mr Bernhardt comes back, and a few minutes later they leave with the new journal. Steve catches himself practically caressing it as they walk down the street.

“I know,” Uncle says, out of nowhere, and Steve notes that he sounds hesitant, and strangely gentle. “Sometimes it feels like there’s no one to talk to, or the people you can talk to don’t understand. Or sometimes you’re not really sure what you think, or why you feel a certain way.” He looks down at Steve, and reaches over to tap the journal. “Write it all down. Writing it down can make you feel better, strange as that may sound. It can help you figure out what you think, what you feel - it can help clear your head, whether or not you realised it needed clearing.”

Steve nods and stares at the journal, afraid that if he looks back at Uncle he might cry. The man has an uncanny knack for knowing what Steve needs, and Steve is blown away again by just how much Uncle means to him.

He swallows to clear his throat. “Do you keep a journal, Uncle?”

“Yes, since I was about your age.”

“And you still write in it?”

“Often.” There’s a pause, then he continues: “Actually, it varies. I write more when things are tough, or new, or I’m feeling down. When I’m settled, and life is going fine, I still write a bit but not nearly as much. Maybe once a week. But anytime things change, or I’m having a tough time - I write it out. I write out everything, even the little details that don’t seem to matter much. It helps me work out what’s most important and what I want to do about it.”

Steve nods again.

“Promise me you’ll do the same, that you’ll keep that journal secure and treat it well?”

“Yes sir, I promise.”

They stop at the park near Steve’s house, as always. It’s late enough for Steve to be coming home from school now, and Steve considers asking Uncle to come to the house. Maybe he could pretend he didn’t know his mother was home, so he could see them meet. But it would be betraying Uncle’s trust, and Steve knows better, so he doesn’t ask. Uncle glances in the direction of his house briefly and Steve knows he knows where the house is anyway. Besides, the envelopes of money still turn up at their door with every visit, and Steve knows those come from Uncle, so obviously the man knows where he lives. But they keep the tradition of parting by the park.

Steve is gonna treasure that journal like nothing else he’s ever owned.


	6. 2014

Steve gently flicks through the worn red journal, absently humming along to one of Beethoven's symphonies. ‘Uncle’ had told him that writing down what you were thinking was one of the best ways to work out what it was you were thinking - one of those pieces of advice that sounded mad but was inherently wise. Steve had taken the advice to heart and continued journaling more or less consistently ever since. Less when life was going well, more when life was going badly, or was full of upheaval - and Steve has experienced more than his fair share of those times. He's been writing plenty of late.

This journal is the first in a series, all of them filled with his scribbles through the years. (Funny how he could draw smooth lines and colour gentle shades, but ask him to form letters and his hand lost all finesse.) The journals had been part of a collection of his belongings in the Smithsonian archives, and were returned to him in the first months after the Battle of New York, when news of his recovery had become public knowledge. He'd been allowed his pick of the items they had, and retrieved most of his sketchbooks too - though he left two of those behind when he saw the look on the curator's awestruck face. They’re in a glass display cabinet now, as part of the Captain America exhibition.

Steve pauses in his perusal as the music swells to a peak, enjoying the familiar sound. He likes classical music, and no matter what the others think, it isn't because he’s old-fashioned - hell, classical music wasn't the cool thing in his time either. It was his mother's favourite. Growing up he'd always been going over to Bucky's and they would sit and listen to Duke Ellington and Nat King Cole all afternoon, the cool new jazz more pleasing to teenage boys. But his mother had always loved classical music, and (after a well-off patient had gifted her a gramophone in thanks for her care) she played Beethoven's Symphony No. 1 whenever she was cleaning. After she died, Steve played her records until he wore them out, the hiss and pops so frequent and loud that the music could hardly be made out.

If there is one thing Steve likes about the future, it’s the incredible clarity of audio recordings. No hiss or pops marring the beautifully smooth tones of the orchestra. And digital music never wears out.

"Jarvis, who is this recording by?"

"This is the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Josef Krips," Jarvis replies. 

"It's perfect," says Steve, closing his eyes. He is back in the bedroom he grew up in, and his mother is doing needlework in the next room.

"It's the most popular Beethoven collection on iTunes," says Jarvis.

Steve opens his eyes. "iTunes - the online music shop? Did you buy this for me?"

"Mr Stark has an account," says Jarvis. "It is procedure to purchase any requested music we don't already have."

Procedure. Steve isn't sure if Jarvis has phrased it that way intentionally to prevent Steve feeling guilty, but it mostly works. He decides not to ask the cost. Everyone keeps telling him that any amount is a pittance to Stark anyway.

Money is one of the things that has taken some adjustment. Everyone thought it would be culture, or technology, but the Twenties Steve grew up in were a more relaxed time than people seem to remember, and many of the new technologies are simply improvements on ideas that were around before he went into the ice. Okay, yes, the improvements are sometimes on a pretty massive scale, but the _ideas_ are not all new to him.

Steve has always had a knack for using technology and strange devices anyway, and he is grateful for it now. He doesn’t always feel like he picks things up quickly, but he has to remember the people around him have been using smartphones and remote controls for years, and their looks of surprise when he masters a new device after an hour or so means he is probably doing fine.

But _money_ \- that is a different matter entirely. 

Prices weren’t entirely static during his time of course, and over the course of the Great Depression most things had become more expensive. But the sheer scale of the changes boggles his mind. Bread has gone from 13c per loaf to several dollars or more - even $5 or $6 for the fancy types. A meal at a fancy restaurant would be $1.25, or $1.75 at a really expensive place - but when Tony had taken them out recently the bill had been roughly $150 each!

He shakes his head. He doesn’t need to worry about money anymore, since SHIELD had set him up with an account with more than enough to cover anything he could need, and living in Stark Tower drastically reduces his living costs anyway. But his research has told him that most people aren’t so lucky. His first comments about prices had been met with “Yeah, but we earn more than you did back then too,” and it turns out that isn’t quite true. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to worry about anymore, but massive numbers of Americans are earning minimum wage, and that hasn’t increased nearly as much as the cost of living.

He has the freedom - the relief, even - of no longer being restricted by poverty. His entire life up until the army had been one of careful consideration, weighing needs and wants and prioritising carefully to make sure there was enough to eat. Sometimes that meant going without new sketchbooks, or journals, or - one one memorable occasion, desperately-needed new shoes - for a week or more. He and Bucky had saved for weeks for the new Benny Goodman record before they could pool their money to buy it. 

Steve intends to do something about it, though he hasn’t figured out what. Giving away his money would only do so much, and probably land him back in financial trouble himself. Systematic change is needed, and he’d already been looking into various social movements in the weeks before SHIELD’s downfall and Bucky’s appearance had derailed him.

As much as poverty had felt like a limitation to him though, it was nothing compared to how he'd felt trapped by his body. It limited him in so many ways - unable to run without triggering his asthma, susceptible to every cold and fever that passed through the area, incapable of standing up to bullies, no matter how determined his heart. He’d lived with it out of necessity of course, but he’d always been frustrated by it. The endless list of things he couldn’t do, the things he had to sit back and watch others do for him or without him.

Bucky had taught him to ride a bicycle, and it was the best thing in the world - as long as the ground was flat or downhill and he took it easy on his lungs. Which wasn’t entirely simple in Brooklyn. Really, if he wanted to ride anywhere he had to have Bucky jogging along with or behind him - so when they got to the uphill parts, he could sit on seat behind while Bucky did the work.

In short, it sucked. 

The serum had taken him to the complete opposite end of the spectrum - and it felt - _feels_ \- amazing. He can jump out of quinjets into the ocean, and come up only slightly breathless. He can practice new fighting techniques over and over without break, until he perfects them. He doesn't have to plan ahead in case the weather turns bad or something triggers his allergies.

He can run for miles, covering ground with long strides and steady breaths that make him feel invincible. 

It feels like freedom. 

The music changes, pulling him from his thoughts for a moment. It’s a hard rock song, a jarring difference from the classical music in the playlist. Rumlow had introduced him to this one soon after the Battle of New York. Most of SHIELD’s Special Ops teams had a preference for rock and metal, and Steve could appreciate the way the music fitted with the hard emotional edges of a mission.

Speaking of emotional… he runs a finger down the cover of the red journal thoughtfully. He’d known that these trips wouldn’t exactly be easy, but he hadn’t been entirely prepared for the rollercoaster of emotions either. 

He’s done about half the trips now, assuming he’s remembering them all. (And Stark’s continued tinkering was paying off - the time machine was getting more accurate, delivering Steve to the requested time as well as date, and returning him to the present with only a few seconds having passed). Steve’s purpose in sitting down with the journal today was to work out what trips were left and what supplies, if any, he needed for them. Mostly ‘supplies’ meant ‘enough cash’, but it didn’t hurt to check in case there was anything else.

Distance certainly made you look at the past through rose-tinted glasses, and some of the visits had been a shock to him. He’d never seen himself in the worst throes of an illness - his rule about never visiting his younger self at home prevented that - but seeing how awful he looked a week after Scarlet Fever was another thing entirely. Or even just after a cold; seeing the greyish cast to his face and way the coughs wracked his body made him worry.

And then he felt ridiculous for worrying. It might not be a fun experience for his younger self to be going through, but he _knew_ that he would recover _and_ go on to receive a new, strong body. And he remembered that Uncle was one of the few people who never treated him like he was weak or useless, and resolved to continue that way. It had been so important to him.

Besides, the trips had brought on plenty of good feelings too. The general atmosphere of Brooklyn, walking around familiar places and seeing the streets that had defined his childhood. Getting to talk to his own snarky self, being reminded just how sarcastic he was even as a kid. He didn’t know if it was vanity or narcissism to enjoy your own company so much, but he did, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He’d even spied on himself hanging out with Bucky a few times; once in town buying sweets, and another time looking through a music shop.

As if on cue, the playlist changes again, from rock to jazz. Artie Shaw starts up in smooth surround sound, and suddenly his mind is full of Bucky.

He’s been avoiding Bucky, and at the same time overly conscious of him. At first he told himself it was because Bucky had never seen or met Uncle, and it was important that didn’t change - Bucky would surely recognise him after the serum if that ever happened. As he made more trips though, he realised he was avoiding Bucky for other reasons too - primarily guilt. Guilt that he’d fallen from the train, guilt that they had assumed he was dead when they should have looked for him harder, guilt that he had suffered for so many years without anyone knowing he needed help. 

And guilt that they still haven’t managed to get him back.

They’re working on it, but Bucky had skills, and the Winter Soldier has more, and the man is proving difficult to trace. Steve isn’t giving up this time, though. Not a chance, no matter if it takes the rest of his life.

And in the meantime, he will avoid seeing Bucky on his trips to the past. It’s easier that way.

Steve sighs, then lifts his arms to stretch and lean back against the seat of the sofa. He’s been sitting on the floor in the living room of his apartment for an hour and a half now, and barely made any progress. Time to knuckle down. He has a notepad on his knee, and a partial list of dates when Uncle visited, taken from his journal. The journal didn’t cover everything, so he also has some of his sketchbooks out, particularly those from before Uncle bought him the journal. Next to the dates, he makes notes about what happened and what he might need to have with him before he meets with himself.

He wishes there were more sources of information though. Even where the journal clearly mentions a visit from Uncle in a dated entry, it doesn’t always give him much detail on what they spoke about. He had preferred to write about what they did together rather than what topics the conversation ranged over, and as time went on the details became ever briefer. There’s even a few unfinished entries where he’d been interrupted and never came back to it.

He’s concerned about accidentally saying something he shouldn’t, but with little to go off he’s had to get used to winging it, and the remaining trips will be more of the same.

He looks at his list, trying to think of anything else Uncle had done that he would need to be prepared for. He bought a kite one time, and on another occasion bought Steve a thick coat one winter. Oh, and he’d paid for Steve’s art school tuition fees.

Uncle had paid his art school tuition fees. He’d paid for his own tuition. _He’d paid for his own tuition_.

Steve chuckles, then starts laughing himself breathless, with big heaving gasps in between, and they almost turned into sobs.

“Captain Rogers, are you alright? I can call someone if you need assistance,” Jarvis says.

“No, no, Jarvis, it’s fine - I just - I paid for my own tuition,” he gasps, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I was so angry at Uncle for so long after I found out. I nearly quit art school over it, but it turns out _I paid it myself_.”

Jarvis doesn’t respond, and Steve smothers his giggles for another minute until they subside. He had been so mad. It was Uncle who had encouraged him to look for and apply to any scholarships available, and he’d been delighted to be chosen for a one-year scholarship to the Auburndale Art School. Until a month after classes started, when one of the girls in administration had let slip that their school didn’t usually offer scholarships… and then he’d gotten the full story out of the dean.

The worst part was being unable to tell Bucky what had happened without explaining who Uncle was, so he had seethed alone for a week before realising that quitting would be pointless. Yes, he didn’t want Uncle paying for expensive things like a whole year’s worth of tuition, and yes Uncle had broken his promise not to - but on the other hand, if he refused the scholarship he couldn’t afford to attend at all, and he wanted to be there more than anything else. And then he’d thought about what his mother would say - ‘Well, if it’s already paid for Stevie, then you’re the only one who will lose out by quitting now’ - and swallowed his pride.

He didn’t see Uncle for some months after that, not until the following year actually, and by then his anger had faded and it hadn’t even been discussed.

Uncle’s visits - his trips to the past - had started to peter out by then. The final trip had been early in 1940, just over ten years after the their first meeting. By then there were enough months between visits that it took Steve a whole year to start thinking that maybe he wouldn’t see Uncle again.

He scribbles ‘August 1937 - set up scholarship through Auburndale’ in his notebook.

There’s only two trips left that have him puzzled, and at this rate he’ll have all his other trips done before he figures them out. They happened in 1930 and 1931, before he had the journal, but he doesn’t know that a journal entry from his eleven-year-old self would have helped much anyway.

They were trips where Uncle was not alone.

He has a sketchbook from Summer 1930 which includes a drawing of the woman - Millie - but he had trouble with faces as a kid and hers had been left blank rather than let his unskilled hand mangle it. Now he wishes he had attempted it anyway; any clues would be better than none. It might be Natasha, but he can’t be sure. He vaguely remembers the woman had dark hair, so it’s definitely not Pepper, but it’s not much to go on.

For the 1931 trip, Uncle had been accompanied by ‘Millie’ again, as well as a man. Unfortunately he had no clues to the man’s identity at all, as he was between sketchbooks at the time and the scraps of paper he’d have doodled on had long since been lost. 

The obvious choice for the man is Tony. It’s his technology after all, sitting in his workshop in a building with his name on it (metaphorically, if no longer literally). But he will be furious if he finds out Steve has been using the machine without his knowledge, and there is no way he can take Tony on one trip without him then demanding to be part of all the subsequent trips. Jarvis has also been quite insistent about only using it when Tony is definitely off the premises and not likely to return any time soon.

So maybe not Tony. He recalls the man being caucasian and dark-haired, so it could be Bruce - but Steve barely sees Bruce outside mealtimes, as he is always in his lab. 

Clint? Steve has seen him with his hair dyed dark once, so…

This is going to take some more thinking. In the meantime, he’ll keep working through his list of solo trips.


	7. 1935

1935  
17 years old.

“I messed up,” Steve says.

“How so?” asks Uncle.

They are sitting in the grass at the top of the Long Meadow in Prospect Park, the largest park in Greater New York City. Uncle has his coat off, revealing arms that look even bigger in a shirt than in a suit. Steve feels small and insignificant beside him, and combined with the self-incrimination he was already doling out, is utterly miserable. 

“I forgot I’d promised to see Mr Thatchman at his general store after school last Thursday. His daughter Emma spoke to me after class on Friday; he’s really mad and saying he won’t give me a job now.”

“He was offering you a job?”

“Sort of. He wanted me to draw some signs for him, for a big sale on the weekend. He said if I did well this time, he would pay me from then on. Not much mind, and probably not regularly, but every little helps. And if I did good, he might mention me to some other shop owners.” Steve sighed. “Guess that’s not happening now though.”

“Have you seen him yet, to apologise?”

Steve shakes his head. “Didn’t sound like he was much interested in seeing me again.”

“Tsk tsk,” says Uncle, infuriatingly light-hearted. “How is he ever going to think you’re reliable if you don’t go to him now?”

Steve glares at him. “Didn’t you hear? I’m already unreliable. It’s too late to make him think better of me.”

“No it’s not,” Uncle counters.

Steve sighs, staring at some kids with a kite further down the meadow instead of answering. Clearly he and Uncle have different ideas on this topic, but to Steve it’s plain. He agreed to be somewhere, to see someone and do something for them, and then he failed on all three points. If that isn’t the definition of unreliable, Steve doesn’t know what is.

Uncle clears his throat. “You messed up Steve; that much I agree with. The difference here is that I don’t believe it’s a lost cause. The situation is salvageable.”

“How? The sale was last weekend. The drawings weren’t done.”

“And he’ll never have another sale again. The _one time_ in his entire life that he had decided to discount a few items, and you missed it.”

Steve snorts.

“If you want people to think of you as reliable, the first thing is to be reliable,” says Uncle, and Steve can tell he’s switching from joking to lecture mode. “Obviously, that ship has sailed for now. But everyone messes up. No one is perfect, and we all forget sometimes, or get distracted by something else, or fail to meet expectations for some other reason. If people refused to work with anyone who has ever messed up, none of us would be working.”

“Okay,” says Steve, conceding the point. “But I still don’t see how to fix it. Other than hoping some other store owner will take me on because they haven’t heard about me from Mr Thatchman.”

“Well, if Mr Thatchman is the sort to badmouth you, you’ll have to fix it with him. And I think that’s the best approach anyway. You should go to him and apologise.”

Steve grimaces, picking at the grass beside him.

“Yeah, I know, it’s never fun to have to apologise and admit you stuffed up, especially not to the person you let down.”

“I’m not seeing the part where this will convince him to let me have another try.”

Uncle seems mildly exasperated. “You have to ask him for the chance.”

“Yes, but what will convince him? He already thinks I’m unreliable. Why would he take me on again?”

Uncle laughs, leaning back on his hands like the topic was ‘activities for a carefree summer picnic’ and not the serious matter of ‘how to repair Steve’s damaged reputation’. “Oh, that’s the easy bit. You’ve got a few things going for you - you’re young and willing to do the first job for free, and if it goes well then later jobs will cost him less than a professional artist. Giving you another chance isn’t going to cost Mr Thatchman a dime, and he might well get some good signage out of it. Also, apologising and admitting you messed up doesn’t make you look bad - it makes you look good. Everyone makes a mistake now and then - but trustworthy people are the ones who own up to it, apologise, and try to do better next time. Think about it from his view for a minute. If you had a worker make a mistake, would you prefer that they come and tell you about it? Or would you prefer they try to hide it, pretend it never happened?”

“I don’t work for him.”

“Not yet, you don’t. But maybe soon.”

Steve is still feeling down about the whole thing, but he begrudgingly admits to himself that Uncle is making sense.

“And for goodness’ sake,” Uncle adds, “don’t forget next time!”

“Not much chance of that,” he mumbles, but then he takes a deep breath, sits up a bit straighter, and thinks maybe this will work out. He’s still worried that it won’t be nearly as easy as Uncle says, but it just possibly might be salvageable. “Your tie,” he says abruptly. “That’s that new style right? The Windsor way?”

Uncle looks over, nods once.

“Can you show me how to knot my tie that way? I should look nice, if - when I go see Mr Thatchman. Presentable. Everyone says that knot is much fancier than the usual one.”

Uncle leans forward to pull his tie loose. “Yeah, of course. It’s not hard, once you get the hang of it. And it does look nicer, because it sits more evenly, instead of pulling to the side.” He takes it off and untangles the knot, then loops it back around his neck. “Okay, so you have the skinny end longer and cross them over like this, that’s the same as usual, but then you tuck the skinny end around the right side here.”

Steve watches the demonstration, trying to memorise each step. It is largely the same as the the usual knot that everyone knows, with a few extra bits in the middle that prevent the knot from pulling to one side when tightened. 

Uncle tugs the tie off again and hands it to Steve. “Your turn.”

Steve is surprised by how soft the tie is. “Wow. This is probably the most expensive tie I have ever held.”

Uncle laughs. “Probably.”

Steve puts it around his neck, amazed by the silky softness of it. “And the suit?”

“You’re not holding the suit,” Uncle replies, grinning.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Why do you only wear it when you’re visiting me?”

“What?”

Uncle looks surprised, which in turn takes Steve by surprise. He thought it was fairly obvious. “The suit. I don’t exactly keep up with the latest styles, but even I can tell it’s high quality. Must have cost a fortune, but you only ever wear it when you’re visiting me. Which doesn’t make any sense, because it’s not like you need to show off your wealth to me, and we don’t go anywhere fancy together - except that one time with your friends, but that was the only time I saw you wear something else.”

Uncle shakes his head, frowning in confusion. “How - Why do you think I only wear it to visit you?”

“Apart from the fact that it’s always the same shade of brown?” Steve grins. He points at the ankle of Uncle’s suit pants. “You got those grass stains well over a year ago, when you slipped whilst running backwards to catch the ball. There’s even some mud still on the hem. I don’t believe you would have gone this long without doing any laundry, so I guess you probably leave this suit behind when you go away, and only wear it again when you’re here.” He shrugs. “Makes sense that you might forget to launder them if you only wear them once every few months.”

Uncle laughs. “You’re a smart one, Steve, never let anyone tell you any different. And now I suppose I’ll have to get these clothes washed before I see you again.”

Steve smiles back, but then it fades. “Smarts ain’t enough though, are they? I mean, they say they are, in the books and in school, but a man is supposed to be strong of mind and body, and I can only live up to half the expectations.”

Uncle looks at him seriously. “If you could only have one, I’d go for smart thinking every time Steve. You can do important things with only a good head on your shoulders, but guys that can’t think straight never amount to much, no matter how big their arms.”

Steve sighs. “I know, I guess, but it doesn’t feel like it. I’d always assumed that as I got older, my body would catch up and I’d be able to keep up with the guys at school. Guess it’s not going to happen though. I think I’ve done all my growing.”

Uncle shrugs one shoulder. “You never know. Some guys get a late spurt.”

Steve laughs bitterly. “Some guys, maybe. But I don’t think I should keep my hopes up. Better off coming to terms with the body I’ve got.”

Uncle straightens up, and for a moment Steve thinks he’s about to get up, but he just shuffles into a more comfortable position. “That’s not a bad idea - learning to accept yourself as you are is important for being happy, so definitely do that - but it’s not all. What you’ve got to realise is that nobody can be good at everything. Look at your schoolmates. Where do you think most of them will go after school? They’ll be construction guys, and dock workers, if they’re lucky enough to get a job at all.” Steve nods, and Uncle goes on. “The only criteria is having a few muscles and turning up on time. But guys that can think, like you? Or draw? That’s not as common. Those muscle guys are a dime a dozen in a city like this, and if one messes up they can fire him and hire someone else in a heartbeat. Your skills are much more valuable. You find a good job, you could work your way up through a company. Or you could strike out on your own, be the boss of those muscled goons. You have options that those guys’ll never have, because you have a brain on your shoulders.”

He pauses for breath, then shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to lecture you again.”

Steve gives him a half smile, then goes back to playing with the tie in his hands. “S’okay. I think I probably needed to hear that. Thank you.”

“I meant every word Steve. You can’t be good at everything, so focus on the strengths you’ve got.”

Steve nods again. “Would be nice to have the smarts _and_ the strength, that’s all. Like you.”

Uncle laughs. “Oh, I have my flaws.”

“Like what?”

He grins. “I’m terrible at doing what I’m told. Every time I turn around I think I’m about to be cut loose, because I went against the company again.”

Steve frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I think doing the right thing is more important.”

“What if you lose your job?” Steve still has no idea what it is Uncle does, but he’s gathered the impression that it’s important in some way. Surely Uncle wouldn’t want to risk that?

“Well, I’d work something out,” Uncle says, and there’s a note in his voice that Steve can’t pick. He glances at Uncle but the other man’s face doesn’t reveal anything. “Anyway. My point was, you can’t be good at everything. So be really good at the things you _are_ good at.”

Steve nods. “Thank you.”

“So, you gonna have a go at the Windsor knot, or are you planning to just stroke my tie all afternoon?”


	8. 2014

2014

The lift outside Steve’s apartment dings. Steve looks up, surprised to see Maria Hill stepping into the room.

“You ready to go, Rogers?” She’s wearing a solid grey dress with a kind of cape. Steve blinks. It’s _the_ dress. 

“Go where?”

“Stark's party.” She raises an eyebrow. “He said you might not be ready yet, but I thought you'd at least be dressed. If anyone had clothes for the dress code, it'd be you.”

Steve shakes his head. “I know Stark's throwing some party tonight, but I wasn't going to - dress code?”

“Nineteen forties theme, Rogers. You _do_ have something appropriate to wear?”

He does, so - after Maria has explained again that yes, Stark is throwing a party, and yes, he has to make an appearance, at least for a little while, and no, she doesn't think the theme was supposed to be a stab at him, but yes Stark probably thinks he's funny - Steve goes and changes into his suit. Then Maria escorts him to the party. Steve feels his eyes continually drawn to dress: the black belt, the silver clasps. He ends up staring at the black hat in his hands; Maria had given it to him to hold while she drove.

The reason for the theme becomes obvious when they arrive. It’s based on one of the Stark Expos, a throwback to to Howard Stark's achievements in honour of the new element Stark has announced. To everyone's surprise, Tony is sharing credit for the discovery with his late father. Steve recognises some of the displays - the flying car, for instance, which is thankfully sitting on a platform and not actually flying - and posters from the 1939 Stark Expo around the room. 

These gatherings are not generally to Steve's taste, but he'd become accustomed to this type of schmoozing in the war and understands the necessity. So he does his rounds, keeping a beer in hand, even taking the occasional sip from it, just for show.

Eventually the bottle is empty, and he uses it as an excuse to leave the current group of businessmen, who are debating the merits of various audio-visual technologies way beyond Steve's understanding - or caring.

“How do you like the party Rogers?” Stark appears out of nowhere to lean on the bar beside him. The bar has orange and red bunting draped along it, though there are few other concessions to the theme here.

“I like it fine,” Steve says evenly. “It’s just a shame no one invited me. Maybe I could’ve worked up to really excited.”

Stark frowns. “Pepper was in charge of invites, you'll have to speak to her about that. And hey - looks like you had something for the dress code anyway. So no harm, no foul?”

Steve rolls his eyes and accepts another beer from the bartender. “I suppose so.” He is slightly surprised when Stark turns to the bartender and orders a virgin cocktail. He'd heard that Stark wasn't drinking so much these days, but he didn't realise it extended to events like this.

“So, I noticed you have an eye on someone,” Stark says, turning back to Steve. “Are you planning to make a move, or do I have to set you two up?”

“What?” Steve's eyes narrow as he turned back to Stark. “What are you talking about?”

Stark laughs, and for a moment Steve can hear Howard in him. “I mean, my new head of security. She escorted you here tonight, and you've been sneaking glances at her ever since.”

“Have I?” Crap. He was trying to be subtle. But it’s _that dress_.

“Oh look, here she comes. Easiest wingman job ever,” says Stark. “Ms Hill! Everything in order?”

Maria had clearly intended on just passing by, but stepped over to the bar at Stark’s call. “Yes, Mr Stark,” she replies. She opens her mouth to continue but Stark cuts her off.

“Good, because the Captain and I were just talking about you.”

“Is that so?” Maria turns her eyes onto Steve, and Stark takes the opportunity to give him a little wave and walk away with his non-alcoholic cocktail held high. “Rogers?”

He coughs, trying to cover for the colour of his cheeks. “Is it weird, working for him now? And having to call him Mr Stark?”

“Is that what you two were talking about?”

He shrugs.

“It's not so bad,” she admits. “Different, certainly, but SI is the leader in security technologies. He's letting me have more free rein than I expected, which helps. I’ve definitely had worse bosses to answer to. So I can deal with having to say 'Yes Mr Stark, of course Mr Stark' now and then.”

Steve nods. “Good.” Then, because he can't think of anything else to say, he lets his gaze drift across the rest of the room.

“Well, if that was all Captain, I have a few other things I need to see to. Some of us are still on the clock.”

“Wait!” he blurts. 

She stops, turning back and looking at him expectantly.

How do you say 'I met you when I was eleven and now I need you to come back in time with me to fulfil something which is basically akin to destiny because it already happened to me once' and not end up in a mental institution?

“I need - I need to ask a favour.”

She blinks, not expecting that. “Okay. What is it?”

“Uh, I can't talk about it here. When do you get off the clock?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate or panicked as he feels. This is the opportunity - she’s here and she’s wearing the dress. Trying to set this up another time would be even more difficult.

Maria is looking at him, eyes narrowed, trying to work it out. “I don’t have set hours tonight. I just have a few checks I want to make. So, in theory, I could be free in fifteen minutes or so.”

“Okay,” he says, air rushing out of him in relief. This could work. “Can you come back to Stark Tower with me in about fifteen minutes?”

“So I can do you a favour?”

“Yes.”

“And no one else can help you with whatever it is?”

“No. It has to be you.”

He earns another raised eyebrow for that. “Rogers, if this is supposed to be a subtle invitation to come back to your place...”

He chuckles, but it sounds slightly choked. “No, it's nothing like that.”

Maria gives a tight-lipped smile, wary but curious. “Okay then. I'll come find you in fifteen minutes.” She turns away before he can thank her. Steve turns back to the bar and takes a large swig of his beer, more out of a need to do something rather than because it would have any effect. Okay. This will work. It will have to work. He still doesn't know how he will explain it to her though. He’ll just have to work it out when the time comes.

“Steve? Everything okay?”

He looks up to see Pepper approaching, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, fine. Hey, what time is this thing supposed to wrap up?”

Pepper shrugs. “Another two hours or so?” she says, then orders a martini - extra olives - from the bartender. “You don't need to stay though.”

“Ah, no, I was more wondering how long I'd have the Tower to myself if I headed back soon.”

Pepper eyes him speculatively. “Taking someone home? Tony said you'd had your eye on someone tonight, but he wouldn't tell me who.”

“No, well, not like that at least.” He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks again.

“Well, Tony can be unpredictable at the best of times,” says Pepper. “But if you left soon, you would have an hour for sure, possibly longer. Of course, if you stayed on your floor and told Jarvis you didn't want any interruptions, he'd make sure Tony didn't interrupt you even if he was there.” She accepts her martini from the bartender and sips it.

“Thanks,” says Steve. “Yeah, of course I'll talk to Jarvis.”

“Tony also mentioned something about the invites?” Pepper asks. Steve is glad for the change of subject. 

“I... didn't actually receive an invite. Had no idea I was supposed to be coming tonight, let alone that there was a 1940s theme.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “I should have known something was up when Tony insisted on giving your invite to you personally.”

“He what?”

“Yeah. So how did you end up here, and in a suit from the right decade, if you didn't get the invite?” Pepper asks. 

“He sent Agent - _Ms_ Hill, to pick me up. I already had the suit - though this is a thirties style, actually.”

“Close enough. Did Tony know you had it?” 

Steve groans. “Yes. He did. So not giving me the invite was Stark's idea of a joke?”

“Pretty much. Be glad that's all it was. He's done far worse. Oh, sorry Steve, but that's Marcia Phillips over there, I've been trying to catch her for a week. Have a good night.”

Steve watches her disappear back into the crowd and then lets his gaze wander again, waiting for the grey dress to reappear. A few people approach but he politely declines conversation, making excuses about looking for someone else. Which he is.

He spots Maria making her way through the crowd a few minutes later, and puts his drink on the bar.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes ma'am.”

She leads him away from the open parlour, where paparazzi wait to snap A-listers coming and going from the event. She had dropped him off there earlier, and he'd done his smiling for the camera. Now she takes him directly to the underground car park, and he takes the passenger side again without comment.

“Is this about my dress?” she asks once they were out on the street.

“Your dress?”

“You've been staring at me and - I think - my dress, ever since I stepped out of the lift tonight,” she says. When he doesn't reply, she goes on. “I know, it's not strictly forties. It was actually designed in 1933, but I figured Stark wouldn't know the difference and well, I thought it was nice and...”

“Elegant?”

“I was going to say modest. I think Stark was hoping I'd wear something a lot more revealing.”

Steve laughs. “Well, Stark can be disappointed if he likes, but that dress suits you very well. Besides, this suit is thirties too.”

“I'm willing to bet half the room tonight wasn't dressed quite right.”

“You'd be correct,” he agrees. “On the whole it wasn't too bad, but most people had a detail somewhere that just didn't quite fit. A hemline too short, or a colour that wasn't common. I couldn't always pick what was wrong, but I assume those people were probably wearing fifties fashions that I never saw.”

“So it didn't inspire much nostalgia then?”

“Mismatched dress styles with modern technology in every other hand? Definitely not,” he chuckles.

“So what is it about my dress that caught your eye so much?”

Steve falls silent again.

Maria tries to interpret his reaction. “Is it not the dress? Is it me?”

“No, no, it's the dress. Or both you and the dress. Look, I can't explain this well. Can you wait until we get there?”

It’s only a few more minutes to Stark Tower, which passes in silence. Steve steals a glance at Maria; she doesn't seem bothered, though as an accomplished agent she can no doubt hide her emotions. He sighs and tries not to fidget.

On arrival he practically leaps from the car and into the lift, then has to hold it while Maria catches up. She looked amused by his eagerness. 

“Jarvis, my level please.”

“Certainly, Captain Rogers.”

“And Jarvis, we'll be heading to Stark's workshop straight after that.”

“Both of you, sir?”

“That's right.”

“Very well.”

The conversation ends there, and Maria looks at him speculatively. “Are you going to tell me what's going on now, Rogers? What is this favour and what do my dress and I have to do with it?”

“You're already doing me the favour, just by agreeing to come with me,” he says. “As for the rest... Jarvis, what are the odds on Maria believing me if I told her?”

“Based on personality analysis and the reactions of fictional characters in similar situations, there is a 68% chance Ms Hill will _not_ believe you, Captain. Even with my account to back you up.”

Steve grins at Maria. “Better to wait and let her see for herself?”

“I believe so.”

Maria shakes her head, clearly amused. “You and Jarvis get on well then.”

The lift arrives at Steve's floor, and he strides to the far side of the living room. “He has been very helpful, once I got used to him being around all the time. He explains modern references much more succinctly than anyone else so far.” He pulls open a desk drawer and picks up the battered old wallet, checking its contents before shoving it in his pocket. Then he digs through a pile of sketchbooks on the desk, pulling out one that looks well-worn. “Right, back in the lift.”

Jarvis takes them up to the workshop, and Steve leads Maria into the room. He ignores the time machine for now, taking the sketchbook to the benchtop against the wall instead.

“Okay. So I think we've established that I don't know the best way to explain what's going on here - for which, I apologise,” he says. “So, let's start with my sketchbook from 1930. This is why your dress caught my eye.” He opens the sketchbook as he speaks and flicks through the pages. He catches a page and opens the book fully, presenting the it to Maria.

It’s the sketch of the woman, clearly wearing the same dress, sitting in a booth at a diner. There’s a chess board sitting in front of her, a milkshake to the side, and a relaxed elegance to her posture.

“You drew this? It's very good. I have - or had - a 1930s doppelganger? Who is she?”

“I'm reasonably certain it's you.”

Maria huffs a laugh. “I know she looks like me, Rogers, but time travel is impossible.”

“I know it sounds crazy. If you'll just hear me out, I can prove it. I swear.” Steve hates sounding defensive but can't help it. This is the first time he's mentioned what he’s been doing to anyone (Jarvis doesn't count, since he was in on it from the beginning). He knows that anyone who finds out will think he’s insane - except maybe Stark, since it’s his invention - but it doesn't make it any easier to hear.

“But, _time travel?_ ” Maria takes a deep breath. “Okay. Jarvis said earlier that he'd back you up. That counts for something. And God knows I’ve seen proof that the world is full of impossible things. So... okay. Sure. Convince me.”

Steve breathes out in relief. He flicks through a few more pages. “I met this man many times growing up.” It was a pencil drawing of himself, post-serum, in the suit he is wearing now. “I drew this one soon after the third time we met.”

Maria is studying the drawing. “You met yourself. Multiple times.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Steve turns and motions to the machine, sitting so innocently on the workbench. “Stark invented a time machine.”

“Right. Of course he did,” says Maria. She shakes her head. “This is still crazy. Why do you think it's me in the other drawing? There’s no face; it could be anyone.”

“Eleven-year-old me wasn't good at faces, so I left it out. But who else could it be?”

“A local woman? Local to the time, I mean.”

Steve laughs a little. “Women in 1930 didn't just hang out with men they'd just met - in fact, they hardly do that now. Besides, you implicated yourself when you talked about the dress earlier. This sketchbook is from 1930...”

“And this dress was designed in 1933. In Paris, no less,” Maria sighs. “Okay. I'm starting to believe you. But time travel...”

“I know. It's crazy and it's risky,” Steve tells her. “Jarvis has lectured me many times, and also played back Stark's monologues on the topic, as well as his discussions with Dr Banner.”

Maria looks up. “Stark - has he?”

“Sir has not used the device,” says Jarvis. “Though he continues to refine its design. And Dr Banner believes that their conversations were purely hypothetical.”

“Stark seems very concerned about the ethical dilemmas of time travel,” Steve tells her.

“And you're not?”

He shrugs. “I'm aware of the risks and I'm as careful as possible. But I already know these trips happened, right? And everything worked out fine. So...” he takes a deep breath. “Will you come back to 1930 with me?”

She looks conflicted. “I... what if I screw something up?”

“You won't. And I'll buy you a milkshake.”

Maria still looks worried.

“Do you trust me?” Steve asks.

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” He holds out his hand to her.

She shakes her head in consternation. “Seriously Rogers? Have you been watching Aladdin or something?”

“I don't know what that is. Should I add it to my notebook?”

“God, no. Unless you're into Disney, in which case it's a classic. Look, shouldn't I be going through all the ethics briefings too? What if I do or say something wrong?”

“We don't have time. Jarvis, how long have we been in the Tower?”

“Thirty minutes, sir.”

“So we only have half an hour before we have to be gone from here, and no sign we were ever in this workshop.” He holds out his hand again. “Just trust me. You'll be fine.”

Maria grudgingly accepts his hand. "Fine. Okay. Jarvis," she says to the ceiling, "I'm trusting you as much as Rogers here."

“I have no doubt you'll be safe, Ms Hill. Captain Rogers has some experience at this.”

“Everything set, Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain. Activation in three, two, one.”

The light flares, and Steve grips Maria's hand.


	9. 1936

1936  
18 years old

Steve doesn't speak much at his mother's funeral. He’s been a mess for the last couple of days, and fully expects this day to be worse. So when her friends from the hospital catch him before the funeral, and want to let him know how much they will miss her, and how much they appreciated her hardworking and practical nature, he just thanks them and tries to be polite without really entering the conversation.

Mrs Knavely manages to catch him as he enters the church, and wants to go on about her good friend and neighbour, too, and Steve is glad that at least his mother will be remember fondly. She was everything to him, but he is pleased to know that other people had loved and appreciated her too.

Bucky sits beside him at the front, exactly where he’s been every moment of the last three days. His folks and sister are seated behind them; the Barnes’ have been a blessing over the last few weeks, but particularly in the past few days. The pastor speaks about how she is in a better place now, and the congregation sings a hymn. He lets the voices wash over him, catching the odd phrase but mostly tuning them out. 

The last days of her life had been awful. Tuberculosis was not pretty, and he wished so much that it was him that was sick and not her. He has finally started to understand how worried and helpless she felt when he was sick. She had smiled at him when he told her that, and stroked his face, pushing the hair out of his eyes. But she didn't speak for fear of setting off another coughing fit.

Those days were bad; the days after she died were worse. All his life it had been just the two of them. His father had gone to war while his mother was pregnant, and died just before Steve was born, though the telegram didn't arrive until he was two weeks old. Growing up, his mother had told him stories about his father, about how brave and strong he was, serving his country and doing his duty to keep them safe, and Steve did everything he could to live up to that ideal.

And now his mother is gone. He doesn't know how to go on without her. 

Bucky is with him of course. Steve had gone to Bucky's place straight from the hospital, and Bucky had let him hide and cry as much as he needed. His folks had insisted on feeding him too, and between them they'd coaxed him through the motions of eating, sleeping and organising a funeral.

He doesn't want to rely on the Barnes family too much, but he hasn't figured out how to keep going on his own.

When the service finishes, he heads straight for the bathroom, waving off the people who try to speak to him with brief apologies. He figures he can hide in there until he pulls himself together again, and then he'll find Bucky before they go to the cemetery for the burial.

He doesn't get to the bathroom. In the quiet hallway is a familiar figure. Steve stops.

Uncle nods towards the back door of the church, at the end of the hall. Steve hesitates, then nods back.

He follows Uncle out to a taxicab, where a driver is waiting. They climb in and Uncle says “Most Holy Trinity Cemetery, on Central Avenue, please.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” says Steve when they are moving.

“I only caught the last few minutes of the service. Wish I had been there earlier.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to contact you. I just hoped you would be around and see the notice in the paper.”

“Hey, hey,” says Uncle, clasping his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You did everything right.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing at all, let alone if I’m doing it right.” He pulls out a scrunched up handkerchief and swipes at his nose again.

“Only the clergymen know how to handle these things, and it’s unfortunate enough that they do,” Uncle replies kindly.

They ride in silence for the next few minutes, until the taxicab pulls up and Uncle pays the man.

“Will you be needing a trip back, sir? Not many drivers come past here.”

Steve glances up towards the main road. It’s not close, but not that far off either. Plenty of traffic passed along it, and they could easily walk up after and hail a ride from there. Still, he’s glad when Uncle says “An hour?”

“Thank you, sir. An hour it is.”

They walk in silence through the cemetery grounds till they reached the grave site. The area is deserted and there’s no sound but the soft breeze and occasional bird call. His mother’s grave had been dug beside his father’s, and now lay open, with the wooden marker lying to the side. The hearse had not yet arrived, so Steve and Uncle were alone.

“I remember,” says Uncle, and the sudden noise briefly startles Steve. “She had the prettiest laugh, and it always made others smile at her. Like her laugh had the power to cheer everyone around her.”

Steve half-smiles at the thought. “She still had that, right to the end. Even when she was sick, she’d still be trying to make everyone else’s day better. You should have heard about the prank she pulled on Doctor Macknight last week.”

“Tell me.”

Steve tells him the story, which leads to another, and before long Steve’s voice has lost its shakiness and they are both laughing.

Then the hearse is seen making its slow way towards them, and they sober again. They wait in comfortable quiet as it pulls up and the priest arrives right behind.

“Good day,” he says, nodding to them both. “Are we waiting on anyone else?”

The priest directs his question to Uncle, rather than Steve, but for once he doesn’t mind. The burden of making every important decision in the last few days has weighed him down, and he’s happy to give it up for a short time. The chance to just be a mourning son, rather than the man in charge, is - well, not good, but a relief.

The groundsmen lift the coffin from the hearse and carry it to beside the open grave. One of them jostles his end and Uncle says “Watch yourself,” sharply, before Steve can protest himself.

“Sorry sir, no offence intended,” the man says, finishing the task with extra care.

The priest keeps it brief, the main points having been covered during the mass at church. He does mention that Sarah Rogers is now joined with her husband Joseph here on earth, as she is in Heaven. “Both fought valiantly in God’s name,” he says. “One on the battlefield of war, and one against illnesses that plague our mortal bodies. Both may rest in peace, together now in the eternal realm.”

He continues to speak as the coffin is lowered into the ground, then invites Steve and Uncle to throw the first handfuls of dirt. They move away to watch as the grounds men finish filling the grave. Steve struggles to hold back his tears again, and instead latches onto another thought.

“Sarah and Joseph Rogers, buried side by side.”

“Mmm,” Uncle hums.

“Is my father really beside her?” he asks, and he feels rather than sees Uncle’s sharp look.

Still, the man pauses before answering. “Your mother went to a lot of trouble to bring him back from the war. You know that.”

Steve nods. He was there, even if he had been small at the time.

After a moment, Uncle lets out a breath. “I’m not your father, Steve. But it’s not an unreasonable conclusion to have come to.”

“You’re not my Uncle either though, are you?”

Uncle takes another moment to reply, and that answers the question clear as day. “I promise you Steve, one day you’ll know who I am.” 

Steve suddenly realises the other man has interpreted the question differently. He shakes his head. “No, that’s not - I _know_ who you are. You’re the man who has been friend and family and more for the past six years. I don’t need to know anything more, not really. You’re Uncle, and that’s enough.”

Uncle didn’t reply, and when Steve turns to look at him he thinks he catches the glint of tears before the older man looks away. 

The cemetery workers finish filling the grave and place the wooden marker. Steve makes his way to it, running his fingers along the top. He wishes for something more permanent, but the coming months will be hard enough without his mother’s wages, and she wouldn’t have approved of him spending more than necessary on this.

“We’d best go meet our taxicab,” Uncle says. 

They don’t talk on the way back to the street. The driver is waiting when they arrive, and Uncle gives the address.

“What are you going to do now?” Uncle asks.

Steve shrugs. “After school finishes, I wanted to go to art school, but now I guess I’ll have to try and find regular work. Just like everyone else is trying to do. Probably end up queueing at the soup kitchens, just like everyone else has.” 

“Mmm,” says Uncle, non-committally. “Maybe you should still look at art school. You might be able to find a patron to pay your fees.”

“The way things are right now, that doesn’t seem very likely,” Steve replies.

“You still have some of the money I left for your mother?”

Steve stares at him then - it’s the first time Uncle has ever mentioned the envelopes, and knowing they are from Uncle is different to hearing the man say it.

“Y-Yes,” he says. “She always saved them for emergencies. I used some for the funeral, but there’s a fair bit still left.”

Uncle nods. “You have enough to get by on for now then. Why not see if there’s any scholarships at the art schools you could apply for?”

It doesn’t seem likely in the current conditions - the only scholarships these days are in business courses or medicine - but looking into it won’t hurt, so he agrees. “I’ll see what’s about.”

The taxicab pulls up by the park where they always part. Steve steps out but Uncle doesn’t follow.

“You could come, you know,” Steve says. “Not like there’s anyone else at home to see you.”

But Uncle shakes his head. “Bucky’ll be round to check on you soon, I’ll bet. And I have somewhere else to be.”

“Right. Of course.” Steve takes a breath, trying to figure out what comes next. It’s such a strange day - he doesn’t know the protocol. He goes with honesty. “Thanks for coming today. It really… You really helped.”

“Of course I came, and I’m glad to have helped, even a little. See you round, Steve.”

Steve closes the door and the taxicab moves off. His mood drops as he walks home, and he wishes he’d asked to be dropped off at Bucky’s house. He has barely been to his own home in the last few days, and never by himself. He doesn’t want to face it alone now, but he stumbles up the stairs anyway. 

Bucky catches up to him even before he can find his key, finding it for him and unlocking the door. “We looked for you after,” he says. “M'folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I just... kinda wanted to be alone.” Internally he winces at the lie. He hates lying to Bucky.

“How was it?” Bucky asked.

“S'okay. She's next to Dad.”

Bucky offers for him to stay at his place again, and Steve finds it in himself to decline. He has to get used to being alone sometime, and somehow having the choice makes it easier. He can do this. 

When he finally steps in the door, there’s another envelope of cash waiting.


	10. 2014

“The sun was in my eyes.”

“It’s ten in the morning; the sun is well overhead.”

“The tree dropped a branch on me at a critical moment!”

“Branch? It was a twig without a single leaf on it.”

“The competition was unfair. I haven’t even had any coffee yet.”

“It was best of three, and neither of us have had any coffee, Rogers. I don’t think it gets much fairer than that,” Maria says.

They are walking through Bryant Park, a few blocks from Stark Tower, Maria having happily paid a small fee at the chess tables for the opportunity to beat Steve again. But somehow he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed at the loss.

“I guess not,” he concedes with a smile. “But I am definitely getting us coffee.” He slows to a stop as he pulls out his wallet. The wrong wallet. The wallet with his Twenties money in it.

“Technically still valid currency,” Maria says.

“Yeah, but I did pay more than face value for it. And we have one more trip to make still. Tell you what,” he says, putting his wallet away. “I think I’m getting the hang of the that fancy coffee maker on the common floor. How about I make us coffee?”

“All by yourself?” Maria teases as they pass the coffee cart.

“Well, maybe with Jarvis’ help,” Steve grins.

Maria takes a breath. “So, this one last trip.” 

Steve’s grin drops at her tone. “Yes.”

“Are you really sure it’s a good idea? I’ve been looking into… _it_ , since we went, and there’s an awful lot that could go wrong. There’s ethical and moral considerations, potential paradoxes - this is serious stuff Rogers. One slip up on our part - as simple as referring to something we shouldn’t know - could have huge consequences.” Maria has slipped into mission-commander mode, and Steve is both relieved and bothered by it. Relieved because she is taking it seriously and looking at things from a practical point of view, and bothered because he has been through all this, weeks ago. 

“I’m aware of all of that,” he assures her. “Jarvis was quite thorough in his research, we went through all the possible problems and outcomes. But all of this has already happened to me once, remember? It all goes fine.”

She frowns at him as they cross to the next block. “Right, because young Steve was with his pseudo-uncle at all times, and therefore knows everything that happens to him.”

Steve sighs. “Well, no, of course not-”

“Then you can’t know that everything works out fine, Rogers.”

“Okay, yes. You’re right. I don’t know everything that’s going to happen. But I have done more than thirty trips already...”

“God help me, if you say ‘what could possibly go wrong’, I’m not going,” Maria says.

This only causes Steve to smile again. “You’ll come then?”

She shakes her head with a wry smile. “Yes. I’m still concerned, and I’d like to sit down and go through what you remember of the occasion, plan for potential issues that might arise. But I’ll go. Who am I to contradict your childhood memories?”

“Thank you,” he says, feeling like the words aren’t enough. They step into a private elevator at one of Stark Tower’s inconspicuous side entrances, and Steve pushes the button for the common floor. “Actually, there’s something else about this last trip you might be able to help me with.”

“Apologies for the interruption,” says Jarvis. “But Mr Stark has finally made his decision, and it is to destroy the device without ever using it.”

There was only one device he could mean. “When?”

“Immediately, sir. I have already taken the liberty of redirecting this elevator to the workshop floor.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

The elevator doors open long moments later and they hear Tony before they see him.

“God dammit, Jarvis! You’re the one who’s been plaguing me with all these ethics lectures and discussions of paradoxes, and now that I’ve come to the decision - for once in my life - to do the responsible thing and destroy it, you tell me I can’t because there are other factors I am unaware of?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“You tell me what these ‘factors’ are right now, or so help me I will break you down into your component parts and replace you with a million unconnected and unthinking pieces of code!”

“That does not seem efficient,” Jarvis replies, as unruffled as ever, and Steve has to marvel at the computer that can sound urgent or caring when it wants to, but chooses to stay calm and unperturbed in the face of it’s creator’s wrath.

“I should be the one answering your questions, Tony,” says Steve, and Tony whirls to face them. 

“What? What have you done?” he demands. “Apart from turning my own not-so-loyal servant against me, obviously.”

“I’ve been using your time machine.”

Stark gapes for a moment, then his anger returns. “Jarvis!”

“Technically, sir, I never told him about the device. He worked it out on his own.”

“And he figured out how to use it all on his own too, right? Let himself into my workshop on his own?”

Jarvis doesn’t immediately reply. Maria cuts in instead.

“Stark, you need to calm down and hear us out.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re in on this too, have you? Of course, if Jarvis and Captain Perfect are going behind my back, it makes sense that my Head of Security is too.”

“Tony,” says Steve, exasperated. He figured the man wouldn’t be pleased if/when he found out, but this was somewhat more than he’d expected. He seemed hurt and bitter, as much as angry. “I’m sorry I went behind your back, but I didn’t think you’d let me go into the past without you if I asked.”

“Damn straight I wouldn’t have. You could have done untold damage to history - in fact, you might have already. How exactly did you work out I even had a device?”

“Should we go somewhere more comfortable? This is a long story,” Steve replies, but Stark just folds his arms.

“I would suggest we go into the workshop, but since Jarvis has locked me out I guess we’re staying here,” he says.

“I would be happy to unlock the door, sir, if you agree not to damage the device until after you have heard Captain Rogers’ story.”

“Fine, just open the freaking door already.”

The doors slide open with a swish, and they file in. Stark stands beside the device on the centre table and glares at them.

“Okay then,” Steve says, and sits on a chair against the far wall. If Stark wants to prove he’s in control by standing in a position of power, then Steve will simply refuse to compete. He gets himself comfortable, and Maria takes the swivelling chair at the workshop bench. Stark glares at them a moment before leaning against the bench.

“Speak,” he orders, and Steve does. He tells him about meeting himself multiple times when he was growing up, and that he had wondered for several years how exactly that came about - and that he had a light bulb moment when he heard Tony asking Bruce’s opinion about time travel. He mentions that Jarvis had refused to let him use the device until he’d sat through hours of time travel lectures and discussions, including Tony’s own research on the dangers and different theories as to how it would work. Tony’s eyes light up.

“Yes, and which theory is correct?” he asks, suddenly excited. “Fixed timeline? Or dynamic? It can’t be the multiverse option, or you’d never have met yourself the first time.”

Steve shrugs. “Could be either, it’s hard to tell. Nothing has ever changed when I’ve returned, but I’ve been actively avoiding trying to change anything, so…”

“Hmm,” hums Tony. “Tricky.”

“The important thing, sir,” says Jarvis, “Is that Captain Rogers had good reason to use the device, and I only assisted him once I was convinced of this. And I am aware that he has one more trip to make, which is why I could not allow you to destroy the device just yet.”

Stark just wags a finger at the ceiling. “I’m still mad at you. Might still break you into pieces.”

“Noted, sir,” Jarvis replies.

“He’s right though - there’s only one trip left, and all three of us have to go,” Steve says.

“Wait, _Stark’s_ coming?” asks Maria, at the same time as Stark says “Why does _she_ have to come?”

Steve shrugs. “You were both there. I mean, I didn’t know Maria was the woman until last time, and I wasn’t sure the man was you, Stark - I don’t have any sketches or journal entries to go off, so I couldn’t be certain - but we’re all here now and we all know what’s going on. I don’t think it’s likely to be anyone else.”

“What’s the occasion?” asks Stark.

“Nothing much. It was Mother’s Day, 1931. No wait - the day before. Jarvis?”

“That would be Saturday the 9th of May, 1931.”

“Sounds right,” Steve agrees.

Stark looks back and forth between Steve and the device for a moment, clearly torn between his earlier decision and his desire to actually _travel through time_. 

“C’mon, Tony,” Steve says. “We go and spend a pleasant afternoon chatting with the younger me. I buy us a fancy dinner. It’ll be fun.”

Tony pauses, then turns back to the device and starts fiddling with it. Steve and Maria both jump up and are beside him in a flash, but he waves them off. 

“Calm down, I’m not breaking it, just… there. The final tweak I thought of yesterday but hadn’t had time to implement yet. Okay, look… this is the last trip, right? Nothing else after this?”

“You have my word,” says Steve.

“Then yes, we can go - on the condition that I will destroy the device when we return, and nobody will ever use it again. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” says Steve, and Maria nods.

“Alright then,” says Stark. “Let’s go!”

He reaches for the big red button. Steve and Maria both shout and reach for him, but only manage to grab his arm before everything goes white.

* * *

May 1931

“You idiot! How could you be so blind! For a genius, you sure are dumb - mmph!” 

Steve is cut off suddenly by Maria’s hand across his mouth. “Might want to keep your voice down,” she says.

He looks around - they are underground, as usual, and no one around. 

“Just in case,” Maria says. “No need to attract unnecessary attention.”

Tony is looking around. “Where are we?”

“On one of the freight platforms of Grand Central Terminal,” Steve replies. “As far as I can tell, it’s directly underneath the place where your Tower will be built.”

“Sweet,” Tony breathes. “I mean, yeah, that makes sense, but it’s really cool to see it.”

“C’mon,” says Steve. “This way out.”

“We’re going to need clothes,” says Maria, stepping up beside him as they walk. “Since someone was too impatient to think through the details before he hit the button.”

Tony opens his mouth and closes it again. “Oh. Uh, my bad?”

“For someone so worried about making a mistake in the past, you sure managed to make a big one in the very first second,” Steve tells him. “In fact, stop.”

“What?”

Steve motions to the end of the platform where it joined the passageways. “We’re about to meet people. Take off your watch, and keep your phone and any other tech out of sight.”

Tony does as he is told, and slips it into his pocket. “Good thing I’m not wearing a see-through tee today, huh?”

“Our clothes are still going to make us stand out,” says Maria.

“There’s a Gimbel Brothers nearby, it’ll do.”

“Can you afford whole new outfits for each of us?”

“Luckily, yes,” he replies, as they start walking again. “Since this was the last trip, I have all of my Twenties money in my wallet. And we’re also lucky that I took the wrong wallet out this morning.”

“Twenties money?” Tony asks, and Steve hands the wallet over. They’ve emerged into the corridors of the terminal and Steve continues to lead them up and out. He knows this route well. 

“All of this money is from the 1920s,” Tony says. “You bought this in our time?”

Steve stops again, looking around, grateful to find no-one nearby. “Okay, first rule of what will no doubt be many: never ever refer to ‘our time’ again. You refer to it as ‘home’, or ‘where we come from’. Got it?”

“Right.” 

Tony rolls his eyes at Maria. She shakes her head - she’s not going to side with him right now, regardless of their employer/employee relationship - and Steve pretends not to notice the exchange.

He moves off again, leaving the others to catch him up a few feet later.

“So, you bought this money… back home?”

“Yes. Most of it came from eBay. And before you speak again: yes, Jarvis told me about eBay, no, he didn’t help me use it, auctions are not a modern invention.”

“No need to get snappy, Cap,” mutters Tony, but then they’re stepping into the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal. “Oh, wow. This is… _not_ that much different to our - where we come from.”

“No, though I believe there was restoration work done in between. Mostly it’s just the indicator boards and shops that have changed,” agrees Steve. “The next bit looks different though.”

They cross the main concourse and step onto the street, and then the changes are really obvious. Stark stares about like a tourist, and Steve grabs his arm to keep him from stepping into the path of vehicles or other pedestrians a few times.

They’re getting a few odd looks and double takes from the passersby, but it’s not until they enter Gimbel Brothers that anyone truly stares. 

“ _Excusez moi,_ ” Maria says in a flawless French accent. “My associates and I have just stepped off the boat from France, and all our belongings were lost in rough seas some weeks ago. We have been informed that this establishment is of the highest quality and will be able to assist us with new clothing?”

The proprietor seems to shake himself and bustles forward. “Of course, ma’am, it would be our pleasure. Uh, you do of course have some means of payment?”

“Enough for an outfit each,” she tells him, “which will do until the rest of our funds can be secured.”

“Then we can absolutely help you and your companions,” he says, smiling widely. He motions for two of the boys present to assist Steve and Tony, and a third to lead Maria to the women’s department.

“Hope you two can do accents,” she whispers before she is led away.

Steve’s French is pretty good, and it turns out Tony is close to fluent as well. Steve isn’t sure their accents are perfect, but they’re not trying to pass among native speakers, and keeping half their conversation in the foreign language is enough to convince the store assistants. An hour later they all have complete new outfits and Steve is handing over almost fifty dollars.

“ _Did you have any trouble with your… heart?_ ” Maria asks Tony in French.

“ _Non,_ ” he replies, and they leave it at that.

They go back to Grand Central Terminal and take the subway to Brooklyn. Steve picks up a paper on the way, and confirms that the date is correct. (”Probably should have done that before we spent all your money on clothes,” Maria says, but Steve just shrugs. “It hasn’t been wrong yet.”)

On the subway, Maria convinces them of the need to practice their French and French-accented English, just in case they end up in trouble and need a cover story again - foreign tourists can blame a multitude of mistakes or minor transgressions on misunderstandings and not being familiar with the area. Steve doesn’t see the need, but he agrees, except when they are with his younger self, who already knows his and Maria’s native accents. Tony complains and fusses but eventually caves, and they spend the rest of the ride speaking French.

Steve leads them out of the subway and into Brooklyn. 

“So, where is this rendezvous with your pint-sized self taking place?” Tony asks.

Before he can reply, Steve hears a call from behind him. “Uncle?”

He turns and grins. “Hey Steve.” Tony mutters something behind him before a small, pained protest, and Steve assumes Maria has hit him for whatever the inappropriate comment was. “What you up to, son?”

“Just got some chocolates for my Ma, for tomorrow,” the skinny kid explains, holding up the box. “She’s on afternoon shift at the hospital, so now I’m heading to Bucky’s. They’re expecting me,” he adds apologetically.

“Not a problem, actually we’re in town overnight this time. Wait, I haven’t made introductions. You remember Millie, of course, and this is… Eddie.”

The shorter Steve sticks out his hand to Tony, having apparently missed his Uncle’s hesitation. “Good to meet you, sir.”

“And you, kid,” says Tony, smirking.

“And lovely to see you again, Miss Millie,” he adds.

“You as well,” she smiles.

“Is your mother working afternoon shift tomorrow as well?” Steve asks.

“Yes - oh, yes! That would be swell,” came the reply. “Normally I hang out with Bucky in the afternoons but tomorrow’s Mothers Day and they’re going out to visit his Nanna. So I was going to be home alone.”

“How about Prospect Park, after lunch then?”

The kid smiled widely. “At the usual spot?”

“Done.” Steve clapped his younger self on the shoulder. “Off you go then, can’t be having Mrs Barnes worrying about you.”

Young Steve laughed. “She’ll do that regardless,” he said, but obediently walked away. “See you tomorrow!”

“So…” said Maria as they turned back up the sidewalk. “We’re staying overnight.”

“I _might_ have forgotten to mention that part,” Steve admitted, grinning. “I thought there might be some arguments about it.”

“There might have been,” agreed Tony. 

Maria narrows her eyes at Steve. “Anything else you haven’t told us?”

Steve shrugs off their annoyance. This is the last trip, and he’s damn well going to enjoy it. “C’mon,” he says. “We’re staying in the nicest hotel Brooklyn has to offer.”

“Wait,” says Tony, pointing a thoughtful finger at Maria. “Did he call you Millie?”

“My grandmother's name was Mildred,” Maria says. “She went by Mille.”

Tony nods. “Okay. So why did you call me ‘Eddie’?”

“We can’t exactly use your real name,” Maria says, frowning at Tony.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that,” he replies. “I mean, why ‘Eddie’?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I’ve been trying to remember the name of the man who was with Uncle and Millie for weeks, and it just came to me. Don’t _you_ know why it would be Eddie?”

“Uh, you’re the one who said it, not me.”

“It’s your freaking middle name,” says Maria, exasperated. “Anthony Edward Stark.”

“Well, obviously,” Stark muttered. “I wanted to know if _he_ knew that.”

They make it to the hotel and check in under French names. The place has black and white tiled floors in geometric patterns, and rich furnishings in gold and red. The staff are surprised by their lack of baggage, but Maria steps in with how they are travelling ahead of their luggage, and are only staying overnight before they travel on to their destination tomorrow. The lie is a little too vague and not quite satisfactory to Steve’s ears, but she sells it well and the staff are only too happy to nod along.

Maria has always had a solid competence about her, but now Steve’s really starting to see why she rose through SHIELD’s ranks so quickly.

After they are shown to their respective rooms, Tony and Maria head to Steve’s. Steve finds himself bombarded with questions from Tony; apparently being in 1931 has made him curious about a hundred thousand topics that didn’t interest him before. Was the neighbourhood he grew up in as gay and decadent as they say? Is it weird seeing all these places again? Does it make it harder for him to return to the future? Does each trip make him want to stay, or does it make the future seem better? Has he met up with anyone else in the past that he knew as a kid? Has he met any new people? Has he kissed any new people? Has he f-

“Stark,” Maria interrupts sternly.

Tony just rolls his eyes. “Okay answer this one then: are you teaching yourself to fight?”

Steve frowns. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Why would I do that?”

He shrugs. “Your file mentioned being bullied as a kid. If I had the chance, I would totally teach myself a few tricks for dealing with that.”

“You’ve read my file?”

Tony chuckles. “Rogers, I’ve read everyone’s files. No firewall or encryption can keep me out.”

Steve looks over at Maria, but she just shrugs.

“No,” he says, leaning back against the head of the bed. “I’m not teaching myself to fight. I never even realised that Uncle could fight.”

“Nothing?” Tony’s face is full of awe. “So it really was all the serum?”

Steve frowns. He dislikes the idea that everything he is comes down to the serum, but it’s hard to argue with the physical aspects. “The serum gave me strength and agility. And quick healing. But I still had to learn the moves. Early on, when I hadn’t had any real training, brute force made up for a lot, and then Bucky and the Commandos taught me some things.”

There’s a heavy pause. Steve’s supposed to be looking for Bucky. This time travel thing has been a massive distraction, and he feels guilty. But this is the last trip. He will get back to the search as soon as they are back in 2014.

“So…” says Tony. “Shall we do something? Get a drink maybe?”

“Not unless you want to risk your life,” Maria tells him. “It’s 1931. Prohibition ring any bells?”

Starks eyes light up. “Well, I didn’t intend something alcoholic, but now you’ve reminded me - speakeasies!”

Maria groans.

“Best we avoid that,” Steve tells him patiently. “Even the stuff that won’t kill you or leave you permanently maimed tastes pretty awful. Besides, we need to keep a low profile.”

Stark sighs dramatically and sits heavily on the bed. “I just want to _see_ one, check it out, soak up the atmosphere.” 

“We will need food though,” Maria says. “What about a restaurant, Rogers? Anything good nearby?”

“Sure.” He stands and drags Tony to his feet. “C’mon Tony, my treat.”

They’re barely a few doors down from the hotel when Steve hears a noise - a startled noise, followed by a protest - clearly a woman. It’s further ahead, and he breaks into a jog without thinking. 

By the time he reaches the alley he isn’t surprised by the scene: a man holding a knife on a woman. He already has her purse and she’s struggling to undo the clasp on her bracelet with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” Steve calls, and the guy turns the knife to him.

“Don’t come any closer. I ain’t afraid to use this,” the man says.

They’re only four or five feet away, so Steve shrugs casually, steps back slightly like he’s more interested in looking down the street, and says “Okay then. I’ll stay here.” Then he reaches the man in two quick strides and disarms him, knocking him to the ground with a punch to the jaw.

Steve picks up the lady’s purse and hands it back to her. “You okay, ma’am?”

“Y-Yes, thank you.”

“It was nothing. Best be along now,” he says, and with one last grateful look she hurries out to the street, passing Maria and Tony.

“You just have to get involved, don’t you?” says Tony.

“I couldn’t just walk past and not help her,” Steve replies.

“Which is all good and well,” says Maria, “but what do we do with him now?”

The would-be robber has backed up against the wall, rubbing his chin where Steve had hit him. With Steve on one side of him and Maria and Tony on the other, he is penned in and watching them in fear.

Steve holds out his hand to the man. “Your wallet. Now.”

He half expects a sarcastic remark from Tony, but the other man stays quiet as the robber fumbles in his trouser pocket and pulls out a thin, worn-out leather pocket. He hands it to Steve. “Nothing in it to take,” the man mutters.

“What’s your name?”

“George Hoffman.”

“Hoffman? Of the Sterling Street Hoffmans?”

“Yeah,” the guy answers warily. “Do I know you?”

“No,” says Steve, pulling out his own wallet. “But I know you, and your family.” He takes a five dollar note out and - to the man’s amazement - tucks it into the worn old wallet. 

“Take that,” he says, and then snatches the wallet back out of reach before Hoffman can take it. “ _Only_ , if you swear never to resort to mugging defenceless women or other crooked acts of the like again. The Hoffmans are better than that, but more importantly, if I hear of this again I _will_ come find you, and it’ll be a lot worse for you if I do.”

“I swear!” Jack says, eyes wide. “I was only desperate, see, because I lost my job a few weeks back.”

“No excuse,” snaps Steve, maybe a little harshly, but he sticks with it. “Times are only going to get tougher, doesn’t justify anyone becoming a common criminal. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” the man says, humbled. 

“There you go then.” Steve hands him the wallet. “Get on home to your wife, and make sure she gets all of that for the dinner table.”

The man grips the wallet tightly and scrambles out of the alley.

“Nicely done,” Maria says. “I thought we were going to have to deal with the local authorities, and that’s a potential headache I’m happy to skip. Did you know that was going to happen?”

Steve shrugs. “Oliver Hoffman’s father was always a little bit crooked, but one day he suddenly straightened himself out, and no one knew why. It was strange, because it was just when jobs were starting to get scarce, and more and more people were turning to crime, not away from it.” He grins at his friends. “Guess I know why now.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “C’mon, goody two-shoes, I’m starving.”

They manage the rest of the walk without incident. They keep up the French tourist act, ordering and thanking the staff in French accents, and one shy waiter even asks to practice his school-learned French with them.

The meal is good, and the evening passes swiftly. Tony even comments - in pretty average French - that he imagines this is what a holiday feels like for normal people. Away from all the responsibilities of home, and a feeling of childlike wonder and delight at finding yourself somewhere new.

When the meal is finished, the waiter brings the bill, and both Steve and Tony reach for their wallets.

“No, it’s fine Cap, I’ll get-” Tony cuts himself off mid-sentence, then pushes his wallet back into his pocket. “I guess I’ll let you get it.”

He waits until they’re outside, then says “That was weird. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before.”

“What hasn’t?” Steve asks.

“I’m always the richest person around. I always pay for other people. It makes me feel…” 

“Big?” suggests Maria.

“I was going to say ‘useful’.” He pauses. “I don’t like it. I want to be the rich one again.”

Steve just laughs. “One more day, Tony.”


	11. May 1931

May 1931  
12 years old

As a nurse, Steve’s mother doesn't often make the Sunday service. She makes a special effort to attend on special occasions, especially Christmas and Easter. But apart from those, they attend sporadically, whenever she isn’t working the morning shift at the hospital, or tired from the overnight shift, or staying home because Steve is ill again and better off staying in bed.

He has been sick for the last two weeks, but he’s at the tail end of it now and more than well enough to sit beside her for a few hours. She’s pleased that they get to attend the Mother’s Day service. Steve muffles his cough in his sleeve and tries to pay attention.

He’d given his mother the traditional carnation along with a box of chocolates that morning, and she’d been pleased and hugged him tight, then went on to scold him for going out alone when he was still recovering. He just smiled at her. He could hardly regret anything which made her smile like that.

Paying attention in church was easier said than done, though. The voice from the pulpit is clear but not loud, and Steve’s mind wanders. It’s easier to concentrate if he can doodle at the same time - which he often does at school - but that’s frowned on in church. He looks down at his swinging legs instead, occasionally pointing his toes to stub them against the ground, then pulling them up and letting them swing freely again.

Eventually the service ends. Steve goes outside with the other kids and soaks in the sunshine while his mother catches up with other the church ladies. The days are getting longer and the sun is much warmer than it was a few weeks ago. Today has turned out to be a particularly fine day, perfect for meeting friends at the park.

He is so keen to see Uncle this afternoon.

Normally when his mother was working afternoon shift on the weekend he would spend the afternoon with Bucky, but today Bucky’s family had gone up to Queens to visit his Nanna. Steve had been facing a long afternoon at home by himself before he ran into Uncle the previous day, and now he can’t wait for the time to come.

He tries to act nonchalant when his mother calls out to him and they go home to a lunch of cold meats and bread rolls. It’s a blessed relief when she finally gets ready for work, kissing his forehead and reminding him he still needs to take it easy, so not to get up to anything while she is gone.

He feels a twinge of guilt at that, but waves her goodbye and wishes her a wonderful Mother’s Day again, and she heads out.

He waits ten minutes after she leaves, just to be safe, then he grabs his coat and the chess set and is out the door. 

Prospect Park is massive, with forested areas and the Long Meadow and the lake at the southern end. Some parts are a bit unkempt these days, with overgrown bushes and long grass; the caretakers tend to focus on keeping the more popular areas neat and tidy. There are various lawns, gardens, fountains and statues. It’s neo-classical statuary, or so Uncle tells him. That’s about the most interesting part to Steve. He’d tried carving once, but it had turned out only vaguely human-shaped. It seems his hands are better suited to drawing.

He takes the walk easy, knowing he’s early and has plenty of time, but still finds himself tiring by the time he arrives at the The Plaza, in the top north-west corner of the park. He’s supposed to meet Uncle and his friends just here, but he has a while and decides to wander in a bit instead. He finds a decent tree with dappled shade, and stretches out of the grass beneath it.

He doesn’t mean to doze off - he’s not sure he was properly asleep even - but he’s brought back to full awareness by the sound of voices nearby. A woman and a man, out of sight but within earshot.

“Ray, stop it,” the woman says, half laughing but with just enough worry in her voice. “I’m not going with you!”

“C’mon, dollface, I know you ain’t rationed,” says the man, and Steve takes an instant dislike to him, even though he still can’t even see the couple. He gets up and makes his way towards them, moving quietly through the bushes until they’re in sight across a small clearing.

“I told you, I don’t want to go with you Ray. You said we were meeting Julie and Timothy and the others here - where are they?” He voice is getting panicky.

“We’ll meet up with them later, stop worrying so much,” says Ray. “C’mon, give us a kiss. Any other girl’d be pleased to have a chance with me.”

“Well obviously I’m not any other girl,” she snaps, stepping back and trying to yank her hand out of Ray’s grip, but he’s much stronger and pulls her back towards him despite her struggles. 

Steve’s seen enough. “Hey! Let her go!” he calls, stepping out of the bushes and walking across the clearing.

Ray barely glances at him. “Take a hike, kid,” he says. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“The lady has said she’s not interested, so get your paws off her,” Steve insists. He stops about fifteen feet from the couple. If he can make this Ray guy mad, he’ll have to let go of the dame to come and beat on Steve, which will give her the chance to get away.

And yeah, okay, maybe this plan ends with Steve getting beat, but it’s not like that hasn’t happened before.

“And I’m telling you again, pally: get lost. This has nothing to do with you.” By now the lady has started crying, still tugging ineffectually to free her hand and obviously having lost any hope of getting out of this with dignity intact.

“If you don’t let her go right now, I’ll be forced to stop you.” _Empty threats, Steve_ , he thinks, but he still believes that getting in a fight will give the lady the chance to run, and that’s what matters.

“I swear to God, if you aren’t gone in fifteen seconds,” Ray snarls, then glances up at Steve and stops. He lets go of the woman and raises both hands. “You know what, I’m pretty sure I was just leaving. Didn’t want nothing from that broad anyway.” He backs away a few steps before turning tail.

Steve isn’t stupid enough to think the sight of him scared the guy off, so he’s not too surprised when Uncle’s voice comes from behind him. “You alright, ma’am?”

“I-I think so,” she stutters.

Steve turns to see Uncle and both his friends standing behind him. Millie and the man - Eddie - are having a whispered argument before Millie appears to give in and makes her way over to the woman.

“That was a brave thing to do,” says Uncle.

Steve shrugs. “It was the right thing to do.”

Eddie mutters something under his breath. Steve only catches ‘ _family resemblance_.’

“Pardon?” he asks, but Uncle is glaring at the other man and Steve wonders exactly what could have annoyed him so much. 

Eddie sees the look and coughs. “Nothing. Just thinking he’d probably have beat you up if we hadn’t come along.”

“What else could I do?” Steve replies. He’s young, not stupid; it’s not like he could let that sleaze have his way with the poor dame and not feel guilty about it.

“I just meant, I’d never have had the guts to do that at your age,” Eddie says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Steve shrugs and takes the compliment as it is. 

“Rogers!” Millie calls, and Steve and Uncle both react. “Cab money?”

“Sure,” says Uncle. He pulls a five dollar note from his wallet and hands to Steve. “Take it over for me?”

Steve delivers the cash. “I hope you’re okay ma’am,” he says to the woman, who is still sniffling. “Sorry I couldn’t be more intimidating.”

She laughs a little. “What are you, nine? And more of a gentlemen than any my own age.”

“I’m twelve,” he says, swallowing his annoyance. People are always underestimating his age. Comes with being short and skinny.

“Well then,” she says, dabbing her nose. “Maybe I should give you my number, and you can call me when you’re old enough.”

“He’ll have all the girls swooning by then, I’m sure,” says Millie with a smile. “C’mon, let’s get you on your way.”

Steve wanders back to the other men to wait. They make idle conversation, mostly telling Eddie about the Prospect Park, which he’s apparently never been to. Millie returns ten minutes later.

“Any trouble?” Uncle asks.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Millie says, and what exactly that means is beyond Steve. Surely someone as fine and elegant as Miss Millie doesn’t get into fights? “And she’s already making plans to avoid this ever happening again. She’ll be fine.”

They make their way out of the overgrown bushes and down to the top of Long Meadow where Steve and Uncle have wasted time together before. Steve shyly pulls out the chess set and asks Millie if she would mind playing him again. She readily agrees and the four make themselves comfortable on the grass.

There’s some kids playing their own approximation of baseball nearby, and Millie gets distracted whenever the ball comes near them; at least that’s the only reason Steve can think of when he finds himself calling checkmate only a minute later.

“What?” says Millie, staring at the board in surprise. “How did you…?”

“Did he cheat?” asks Eddie from Steve’s other side.

“No,” he says indignantly.

“Steve does not cheat,” says Uncle.

Millie shakes her head. “Well done. You’ve been practising.”

“You did tell me I should beat you next time we played,” Steve reminds her, grinning cheekily.

“So I did.”

“Bet you can’t beat me, kid,” says Eddie, and Steve moves the chess set over to sit between him and the other man, and they set it up again.

They spend another hour or so sitting around, and everybody has a few turns at the chess board, making Steve quite pleased that he brought it. He doesn’t win any more games, but Eddie shows him a few moves and he watches the adults play each other and feels like he’s learning something.

Millie suggests going for a walk through the rose garden after that, which isn’t too far off, so they pack up and wander over. The afternoon is passing quickly - apparently he had dozed for a while earlier after all - and the chill breeze sets off his cough again. He swallows the itch in his throat as much possible, but he can’t resist it completely and the deep, throaty cough comes on again.

After the third round of coughing he catches the adults exchanging glances.

“I’m fine, I have cigarettes at home,” he says, but to be honest he’s tired, and he’s torn between wanting to go home where the chill breeze can’t get to him, and wanting to spend as much time as possible with Uncle. 

“You smo-” Eddie starts, looking surprised, but Uncle cuts him off.

“Medicated cigarettes are the doctor’s recommendation, no doubt. You keep doing what you’re told,” Uncle tells him. “In the meantime, I’m hungry. What d’you say we go find some food?”

Steve imagines the diner, but when they climb into a cab Uncle says “The Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island, please.”

“Yes, sir!” says the driver cheerfully. 

“Really?” Steve asks, eyes wide. “We’re going to Coney Island?”

“Sure, why not?”

“But isn’t the Half Moon Hotel really expensive?”

Uncle shrugs, grinning. “What can I say? I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

“I’m not exactly dressed for somewhere so fancy, is all,” he says, noting that the other three are dressed much better than he is.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” says Eddie.

It is fine, even though they arrive fifteen minutes before the restaurant technically opens for the evening. Uncle sweet talks the waiter with a generous upfront tip, and they are soon seated and sipping drinks while they wait for the kitchen to be open.

The dinner is grand. The restaurant is the fanciest place Steve has ever been to, and the food is as good as promised. They chat about nothing, about the weather, about the articles Uncle has read in the local paper. In that regard, the conversation is almost too normal. Steve would think Uncle’s associates would have other topics to talk about with him, but they seem to be letting Uncle steer the conversation. There’s nothing obvious or strained about it; Steve just thinks it’s odd.

Eventually they’re ready to go. Uncle and Eddie both reach for their wallets; then Eddie pauses and doesn’t pull his out.

“I forgot, it’s your shout,” he tells Uncle, and Uncle grins at him.

“Old habits die hard?”

Millie just smirks at Eddie, and Steve wonders what they’re on about. Uncle pays the whole bill without further ado, and Steve is slightly annoyed that he missed hearing the price. It’s not like he needs to know, he’s just curious, and he makes up for it a little when they walk past an advertisement on the window just outside the restaurant, which announces “EXCELLENT DINNER DAILY $1.75, SUNDAYS and HOLIDAYS $2.50!”

It’s Sunday, so Uncle just spent ten dollars on their meals alone. It’s an outrageous sum of money. It’s a month’s rent, and that’s without adding in their drinks.

Steve knew Uncle was well-off, for all that he’s never been showy before, but Steve is revising his estimation of just how well-off.

Eddie hails another taxicab for the trip home, and Uncle gives the address of the park near Steve’s house. It’s twilight when they arrive, and Steve has a moment of irrational panic when everyone follows him out of the car. 

“We’ll walk back to our hotel from here,” says Uncle, and relief washes over Steve. Of course they weren’t intending to accompany him home - that was ridiculous. Uncle has never once tried to walk Steve home, even though they both know that Uncle had been there. It makes no sense he would start now.

“It was good to meet you, kid,” says Eddie, sticking out a hand and Steve tries to shake it firmly like Uncle’s taught him. “I may not have known you long, but I think you have a bright future ahead of ya.”

“Uh, thank you sir,” says Steve, trying not to blush. He catches Uncle rolling his eyes and wonders if he’s missing something again, but then Millie is there.

“Lovely to see you again, Steven,” she says, offering her hand as Eddie had. “Stick with the chess practice for me, okay?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he says. “Thank you again for the set.”

She laughs. “You’re still welcome.”

She moves aside and there’s a pause where he and Uncle look at each other, then Uncle looks over at his associates. Millie nods and herds Eddie up the footpath without further discussion. “Let’s go, he can catch us up.”

Eddie protests a bit but soon it’s just Uncle and Steve. Uncle looks inexplicably sad.

“Is something wrong?” Steve asks.

Uncle shakes his head. “I, I might not be back for a while, that’s all. And today was good - no, today was great.”

Steve nods, smiling, hoping he can transfer some of his happiness to Uncle. “Today was really great, thank you. Especially dinner. And the chess games. And it was nice to meet some of your friends.” 

Uncle laughs a little. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“You are coming back though?”

“Yeah,” says Uncle. “Just, probably four or five months away, is all.”

Steve doesn’t understand, because anything between three and six months between visits has been normal so far, so it still doesn’t explain why Uncle’s so emotional. But then Uncle pulls him into a hug, and Steve’s hugging him back, and it doesn’t matter anyway.

They part and Uncle claps him on the shoulder. “Better get on home, before the chill makes your cough worse again.”

Steve steps back. “Abyssinia, Uncle.”

“Yes, you will.” Uncle smiles, then turns up the street, and Steve heads for the warmth of home.


	12. May 1931 - Modern POV

May 1931  
Modern POV

“Thank you, and please come back if you’re ever passing through again!”

Steve smiles in thanks and joins Maria and Tony on the street. 

“Homeward bound,” says Stark, and they head for the subway. 

They’re all quiet on the way. Steve is preoccupied with trying to remember every detail, every atmosphere and impression, trying not to focus on that fact that he’ll never be here again. This is it. Nothing left but the future.

They reach Grand Central Terminal and make their way from the subway to the train platforms. Steve leads them to the right platform, ensuring they aren’t noticed on the way.

“Alright,” he says, releasing a breath. “This is it.”

Maria looks around them, Stark just nods.

“We all good?” Steve asks, wondering if there’s a reason for their apparent hesitation.

“I’m ready if you are,” Stark says. “Ms Hill?”

“Yeah, let’s do this,” she says. “Who has the remote?”

Steve turns to indicate Tony and sees Tony’s eyes widen in horror.

“Oh no,” says Maria.

“You don’t have it?” asks Steve, trying to swallow his panic.

“I thought you had it! It wasn’t beside the device where I left it!”

“Yes it was! I was always careful to put it back - and Jarvis made sure it was the exact spot every time! You were just too busy being angry to stop and think about things rationally!”

“Well it wasn’t there! And since you’ve been sneaking behind my back and using my technology without permission, I assumed you already had it!”

“Well I don’t! And you should’ve thought to ask before behaving so irresponsibly!”

“Hey, cut it out,” hisses Maria, pushing them back from each other. “We _still_ can’t afford to attract attention, remember?”

Steve looks around in a hurry, but thankfully this platform is as deserted as usual and their yelling doesn’t seem to have drawn anyone towards them. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, what now?”

“Stark, can you make another remote device?”

Tony pauses, his expression becoming one of concentration. “Most of the parts are basic electronics. I might have to solder a few things from scratch, and it won’t be as pretty as the first one but…” He hums. “There’s only one part that could be difficult. The alien stone that the technology is based on.”

Steve groans. Of _course_ it’s an alien artifact.

* * *

They debate the best course of action, and decide to find the cheapest hotel in Manhattan. They don’t want to risk going back to Brooklyn, since Steve has completed every visit from ‘Uncle’. So it’s a new hotel, and this time Tony and Steve have to share a twin room.

“How much money do we have?” Maria asks. 

Steve checks through his wallet. “We’ll have to be careful. None of the fine dining we’ve been doing up to now. But we can probably last three or four days if we need to.”

“Crap,” says Tony. He’s sitting at the room’s only table, paper and pencil in hand, scribbling plans and making lists. “We’ll need to. It’s going to take a day or two to get most of these parts and tools, another day to put it all together, and I haven’t even figured out the problem of the alien rock yet.”

“What exactly is the the problem of the alien rock?” asks Maria. Steve suspects she’s settling into mission mode - working out the parameters so they can make a plan and execute it. He’s kind of glad. He was so busy trying to cope with leaving, the fact that they’re staying a while longer has thrown him for a loop. He’s relieved to be accompanied by two people who don’t need him to be a leader right now.

Stark holds up a rough sketch. “The stone looks like this. It’s a fairly bright blue, reminiscent of blue sapphire but with dark grey streaks through it, and about the size of an ostrich egg.”

“And the problem?”

“I don’t know where it is in 1931.”

Steve meets Maria’s look. “That is a problem.”

“Yes, but one we can hopefully solve. Let’s start with what we do know. Where did you get it from, Stark?”

“Handed down from my father. He knew it had some unusual properties but he never figured out it had temporal effects.” Tony smirks briefly before continuing. “I know he got it from one of his professors, he used to go on about the guy - but I can’t remember the guy’s name.” He shakes his head with frustration. “I should know it.”

“Any way of finding out?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. “I think I’ll know it if I see it?” 

Maria groans. “We could be stuck here a while then.”

* * *

As Steve expects, Maria takes charge. She doesn’t exactly boss them about, but she comes up with the game plan and - since neither he nor Tony have any better ideas - her plans are actioned. 

To start with, Steve and Maria go grocery shopping while Tony stays at the hotel and finalises the list of parts they need. Making their own food is considerably cheaper than eating out, though the lack of cooking facilities in their rooms means it’s pretty much going to be sandwiches three times a day with varied fillings. Then they set about getting all the items on Tony’s lists, while Tony trawls through the directories of local educational institutions. The one detail working in their favour is that Howard Stark grew up - and did all his studies - in New York, so it’s likely the stone isn’t too far away.

By Tuesday afternoon, they have everything but the key element. Stress and boredom are a bad combination, and before long Tony kicks Steve and Maria out of the room for ‘nagging until his ears bleed’. They go down the hall to Maria’s room instead. Steve checks there’s no one else in the hallway before following her in - it wouldn’t do to cause scandalous gossip among the hotel staff.

Maria kicks off her shoes and collapses into the armchair. Steve stands awkwardly for a moment before she rolls her eyes and waves at the bed. “It’s a hotel room, not my bedroom, Rogers.”

He takes her point and sits on the bed. “You can say it, you know. You haven’t yet but I totally deserve it, so, if you want to…”

“Say what?”

“I told you so.”

“Oh.” Maria laughs a little under her breath. “I did warn you, didn’t I? But there’s no benefit to being right. Expecting trouble didn’t help solve the problem when it came. I’d rather everything had gone as smoothly as you thought it would.”

“Me too.”

Maria looks a little surprised at that. “Even though you were sad to be leaving? Honestly, you looked like you were going to a funeral the other day. When it turned out we couldn’t go back - yet - I half expected you to suggest we stay and make the best of our new lives in the 1930s.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not if there’s another option. I mean, yeah, I was sad I wouldn’t see this time and these places again - well, these places as I knew them growing up - you know what I mean. But that’s the nature of growing up. Life is always about the future, and the past only exists in our memories. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“Very philosophical.”

“Besides, I’m not all that keen to go through the depression again. Or the war.”

“Both those things might happen again in the 21st Century, when we get back.”

Before Steve can reply (with something along the lines of ‘ignorance is bliss’) Tony bursts into the room. “I’ve found him!”

“Good. Where?” Maria asks, straightening in her chair.

“Albrecht School of Science and Technology, Midtown,” Tony replies, waving a bit of paper. “Professor Kahler is Head of Physics.”

“This is the man who has the stone?” Steve says, taking the paper.

Tony falters. “Well… he’s the man who gave my father the stone. I hope that means he has it now. But to be honest, I don’t know when or how _he_ got it.”

Steve sighs.

“Still the best lead we have,” Maria says firmly. “For now we’ll work under the assumption that he has the stone. Where does he live?”

Tony shakes his head. “It won’t be at his home; if he has it it’ll be at the school. I remember my father said he had spent many hours staring at it in a display case before it was gifted to him.”

“Right. Let’s go then.”

Night is falling when they reach reach Midtown. The building is closed up and quiet. They pause in an alley opposite.

“Stark, stay here. Rogers and I will check the building and return.”

“What? Why can’t I come?”

“Because you don’t understand the concept of quiet and subtle,” Steve tells him with a grin.

“You don’t do stealth missions, Stark,” says Maria. “Obviously we’ll need you inside to find the stone but you can wait five minutes for us to find the best way in.”

“Fine, go, whatever.” Tony waves a hand carelessly and slouches against the alley wall.

“I’ll take the left side, you take the right?” Steve suggests. “Meet at the back, then return here to discuss the options.”

“Done.”

They part ways, Maria doubling back down the alley to where it joins another heading to the right, while Steve steps straight out onto the street. It’s not quite dark, more twilight, and everything is bathed in an even blue glow.

He crosses the street - traffic is fairly quiet at dusk in this neighbourhood - and casually makes his way down the side of the block. The School takes up the whole block, and apart from the grand steps at the front, has lots of side doors. They are all closed, and he assumes they’re locked. He could pick the locks, though, if they needed. Or just break one.

The real question is where do they need to be? He looks up the the windows of the floors above, tries to spot anything that could indicate a science lab, but the building is dark and he can’t make out anything useful.

He reaches the bottom end of the block, and follows the building around the corner. There’s another large entrance for staff and students, less grand than the front but able to handle the capacity. And then closer to it, a delivery entrance. Which doesn’t seem to be quite shut properly.

He walks over to take a closer look, but before he can a voice calls out. “Hey! Whatchya think you’re doing?”

He turns to see a cop, but he’s not talking to Steve - he’s heading for the opposite corner of the building. Steve follows his line of sight to see Maria.

“ _Excusez moi_ ,” she purrs, and Steve swallows a smile as he makes his way towards them. “I appear to have lost my way. This is not the Hotel Rascallion, is it?”

“No indeed it is not. Why were you peering in the window?” the man asks, suspicious.

“I was trying to see if it is the Hotel,” she says, smiling sweetly. “But even as you called out I realised my mistake. Oh! And here is my husband.”

The officer turns to see Steve approach, and is visibly intimidated. 

“Sophie, did you get turned about again?” he asks her in his best French accent. To be fair, Maria’s tips a few nights ago had helped, and he was pretty sure he’d convince all but the most well-travelled New Yorkers. 

“I tried to follow your directions,” Maria replied, “but you know me, I’ve never been very good at following them.”

“I think, for my sake, I had better not comment on that,” Steve says, and Maria laughs. He thinks it’s probably half-genuine. “But we are only a few blocks from the hotel. Come, let us leave this man to his job.”

Steve offers his arm and Maria accepts it. The cop, apparently appeased, wishes them a good night.

They walk arm-in-arm, speaking in French until the get back to the alley.

“Well, don’t you two look cosy?” Stark says.

Maria drops his arm immediately, and Steve is surprised by the feeling of loss. The warm patch where her arm had rested feels uncomfortably cool now.

“I got caught,” she says, and Tony smirks.

“And here you were making comments about me not being stealthy.”

“You’re not stealthy, Stark. And if it had been you, we couldn’t have passed it off as a couple of lost French tourists.”

“French lovebirds, more like,” Tony says. Steve frowns, but when he glances at Maria she just rolls her eyes, so he lets it go. “So did you find a way in?”

“Pretty much everywhere,” Steve says, and Maria nods. 

“Standard security for this… _area_ ,” she says, “which means we could pick just about any of the locks.”

“So, what are we standing around here for?”

“Nuh-uh, not tonight,” Maria says. “The lost tourist excuse won’t work on that guy a second time, so we can’t risk it. We’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

 

* * *

They return the next day, having decided to try and blend into the student population during class time. Steve leads the way, and asks passing students for directions until he finds one that knows Professor Kahler. 

“He’s up on the third floor,” the student tells them. “Go down the end of the hall and turn left, then it’s the fourth door on the right.”

They follow the instructions, careful to match the casual pace of the other students. 

“You know,” Tony starts, keeping his voice low. “When you said we weren’t too old to fit in here, I wasn’t sure I believed you, but… there’s all ages here.”

“There’s no age limits,” Steve replies, then considers the context. “Wait - are there age limits in, uh, where you’re from?”

“There’s no upper limit,” Maria explains, “but the vast majority of students are straight out of high school, which gives tertiary education a certain reputation. You don’t get too many kids starting early though.”

“I started college at fifteen,” Tony says, “but that was years early, through an exclusive accelerated program.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He might have to look up changes in education when they get back to 2014. It’s not an area he’s thought to research yet. “Well here, as long as you pass the entrance exam, you’re allowed in. Most people have to do a certain number of high school units to qualify, but there’s plenty of older people who never had formal schooling, and sometimes younger teens can skip ahead.”

They reach the third floor and make their way down the hall. It’s quieter up here, away from the busy entrance.

“We’ll have to check Kahler’s office, plus any science labs and hallways which have display cases,” Tony says. “And cross our fingers that the room we need is empty.”

They turn the corner at the bottom end of the hall and start checking the rooms they pass. There’s a few empty labs, both with display cases, but Tony shakes his head. 

“Not here.”

There’s one display case in the hallway, filled with mounted butterflies and other insects. Two lectures rooms, one full of students, one empty, but as far as they can tell neither have any display cases.

They reach the Professor’s office, the door halfway open. A few feet into the room, a door stands ajar into a side-room, and Maria points. The lights in the side-room are off and the blinds are drawn, but even in the dim light Steve can see a display case with various rock-shaped objects in it. 

“That’s gotta be it,” Steve quietly agrees.

Maria takes one step forward, then immediately backs up, stepping into both Steve and Tony.

“Wha-” Tony starts but Maria whips around and covers his mouth with her hand.

“The professor’s in his office,” she whispers.

“So?”

“So, that side-room is labelled ‘Advanced Students Only.’ He’s not going to just let us walk in there.”

Steve looks at Tony. “Go distract him with science questions.”

“No,” Maria hisses. “You need Stark to identify the stone. I’ll go.” She spins away before they can question her and walks straight into the room. “Professor Kahler? Are you the physics professor here?”

She’s affected her French accent again. Steve waits a long moment before peering around the door. He watches as Maria marches straight past the bald man to exclaim over the view from his window, forcing the professor to turn his back to Steve.

“Oh, isn’t that a lovely view! You can see right down the street!”

“Er, yes, I suppose you can,” says Kahler, clearly bewildered. “I’m sorry, young lady, did you need me for something?”

Steve steps softly into the room. He reaches the door to the side room even as Maria replies.

“Oh, yes! My apologies. I am Sophie Moreau, I am visiting your lovely city. In my home I study the sciences, and I am told you are a foremost scholar of physics. I wondered if we could have a pleasant discussion over tea and I could learn from your superior knowledge?”

The man splutters in modest embarrassment, as Steve grips the door firmly and opens it another foot, enough for him to pass through. He’s relieved that it’s well-oiled and almost silent. 

“Oh, well now, I suppose that could be arranged, I don’t have another lecture until after lunch today. Did you have a particular topic in mind?”

“I’ve been very interested in the Raman effect, and what it says about the quantum nature of light.”

“Well, that is very advanced indeed,” Kahler replies. “You are clearly keeping up with the latest developments in the scientific world.”

Once inside the side-room, Steve turns to signal Tony. Only Tony is already halfway across the space, has stopped and is gaping at Maria.

Steve waves desperately, trying to get Tony’s attention without making a noise, but eventually resorts to stepping out and grabbing the smaller man, dragging him into the room.

“How the fuck does she know about the Raman effect?” Tony hisses.

Steve has no idea what that is, and doesn’t really care, but Tony’s made some assumptions here that piss him off. “Seriously, you think you’re the only bright spark around? Maria didn’t make second-in-command of SHIELD without some brains,” he whispers. “Being the smartest person around doesn’t make everyone else dumb, Tony!”

Tony stops, looking first surprised and then grudging. “Yeah, fine. Okay. Just, I spent an entire semester on quantum physics in college. I wrote a paper on the Raman effect. It’s not something most people have heard of, let alone know enough about to have a discussion with a physics expert.”

Steve knows he won’t get an apology any more explicit than that, and releases Tony’s shirt. “So that guy’s an expert?”

“Well, Howard was duly impressed. He used to talk about how far beyond his mentors and teachers he had come, but he never had anything but praise for Kahler. Shall we move on?”

Steve follows Tony to the display cabinet against the wall. He can see a few blue stones, and Tony pauses by the first one before dismissing it and moving on to the next.

Then they hear footsteps in the next room moving closer, and both stand still until Maria and Professor Kahler have passed the side-room door. Maria is talking to Professor all the way, and plainly states that they are going to the cafeteria to continue their discussion. Steve lets out a sigh of relief when their footsteps fade down the hall.

“Okay, she’s bought us some time,” he says, making his way over to the light switch. The light gives the room a bright yellow glow. “Let’s find it.”

It only takes another minute before Stark says “Here!” Steve makes his way over. The stone is a very rich blue, with thin streaks of solid grey through it. It’s also bigger than Steve imagined.

“You’re sure?”

Tony gives him a withering look, and Steve relents.

“Fine, this is it, I believe you. Let’s take it and go.”

“What? No, we can’t take the stone!” Tony says.

“ _What?_ ” Steve asks. “But we went to all this trouble for it! What do you mean we’re not taking it?”

Tony shakes his head. “Time travel, remember? This stone needs to be here, so that it can one day be given to Howard, so that he can pass it to me, and I can build the device that got us here.”

Steve deflates. “So we can’t use it to get back?”

“Oh we can,” Tony tells him, grinning. “We just don’t need the whole stone. That’s how the device works. The main stone stays in the device in my workshop, a small piece resides in the remote device. If we take a piece off this stone, we can use it to get back.”

As he speaks, Tony reaches over the glass case and slides open the panel at the back. He sticks his arm into the space and grabs the stone, then holds it up triumphantly.

“Aren’t you just a gorgeous piece of natural evolution?”

“I thought it was alien.”

“I didn’t say it was Earth’s evolution.”

Generally Steve doesn’t mind Tony, but after several stressful days he is ready for some time away from the man. “C’mon, get your piece so we can get moving before the Professor returns.”

Tony pulls a chisel and mallet from his bag and grins. “I come prepared.” He goes to the solid desk at the top of the room and sets up. Steve moves towards the door, keeping an eye out for any sound of approach, then glances back to see why Tony’s so quiet. He’s examining the stone, turning it over and over.

“What’s the matter?”

Tony holds it up so Steve can see. “It’s got two spots that are almost flat. When I got it, it only had one flat bit. One of these had a deep gouge in it instead. That gouge made it easy to chip a piece off, and I was planning to do the same again.”

“Clearly something happens to it between now and when you inherit it,” Steve says. “You’ll have to take a piece from somewhere else.”

Tony puts the stone down, and Steve goes back to being lookout. 

There’s a clink and Tony swears. “Cap, come and hold this for me. Normally I’d have Dum-E to hold things still, but you’ll have to do.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Grip it tight, and hold it on just that angle - there!” Tony has another crack at it but the chisel only makes a dent. “Damn. I need better tools.”

“What did you use last time?”

“A laser cutter.”

“I think those are in short supply around here.” Steve examines the dent in the stone. “Here, let me have a go.”

They switch places, Tony gripping the stone while Steve takes up the chisel and hammer.

“No cutting off my fingers, Rogers.”

“If you think you’ll need them,” Steve snarks and brings the hammer down hard. The chisel still struggles to bite into the stone and slips instead, leaving a deep cut in its wake. But at the last moment it digs into a small groove and a piece breaks off from the bottom.

“Will that do?” Steve asks, but Tony is more interested in the main stone. 

“That’s it!” he says, excited. “That’s the gouge!”

Steve looks, and sure enough, he’s left a long deep gouge in the stone, so it only has one truly flat face now. Tony turns it over again, checking how it looks.

“This is exactly how it looked when I got it, so this must be it. The gouge there, that shape at the bottom, all perfect.”

Steve picks up the small piece. “This will be enough to get us home then?”

Tony finally puts the stone down long enough to look, and isn’t immediately pleased. “It is a bit small,” he says slowly. “But it should be enough.”

“ _Should_ be? That doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“No, it’ll be enough. It has to be, because we obviously didn’t take any more. This will have to be enough.” 

Steve doesn’t feel reassured, but Tony is already returning the main stone to the display cabinet. 

“C’mon, Steve. Let’s go see if the damsel is in distress.”

They make their way downstairs and find the cafeteria easily enough. Maria and Professor Kahler are seated towards the middle of the room. Steve catches Maria’s eye, and after a few minutes she makes her way over.

“Thank god, that was getting tedious,” Maria says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What took so long?”

Just then a young, dark-haired boy ducks past them. “Professor Kahler! Professor Kahler!”

Steve hesitates and feels Tony freeze beside him. “Was that…?”

“Howard,” says Tony, sounding strangely distant like he always does when his father is mentioned. They turn to watch as the boy reaches the professor and waves some papers at him.

“He doesn’t change a bit,” says Steve. “How old is he?”

“Must be about thirteen. Too young to go here, but he always did have a way of bending the rules for himself.” Then Tony huffs. “Changes a fair bit between now and when I know him. He’s not drunk, for starters.”

“Enough gawking, let’s go,” Maria says.

* * *

Now that they have the stone, Steve expects a sense of relief, but if anything the tension increases. He and Maria make a late lunch in the hotel room while Tony gets to work, and they even turn on the radio, but there’s still an anxiety in the room that won’t lift.

It's the helplessness that bothers Steve the most. They need this to work, but there is nothing left for him to contribute and once they’ve tidied up from lunch there is nothing to occupy him. Sighing, he sits on his bed and flicks through the now five-day-old paper. Maria makes herself comfortable sitting on Tony's bed and closes her eyes. Steve can't tell if she is dozing or meditating.

The paper holds no interest - he's already read it several times. He puzzles over two crossword answers he hadn't been able to work out before, and eventually solves one of them.

Tony stays bent over his desk the whole time, occasionally muttering to himself but mostly appearing to tinker with one part then another. Steve wonders if it's methodical or if he's just adding parts as he remembers them.

"How much longer, Stark?" Maria asks after a few hours. She hasn't moved, but when Steve looks over her eyes are open.

Tony takes a deep breath and considers the strange contraption in front him. "A few more hours? Haven’t finished all of the circuitry yet, and I have to adjust some of the parts that I pre-built since the stone is not the size or shape I was expecting."

"Then I'm going for a walk," Maria declares. "Coming, Steve?"

"Sure."

They don’t set out with any particular destination in mind, but end up meandering in the direction of Central Park. The sun is setting and the weather is cool and breezy.

“I’ve never been good at waiting,” Maria says out of the blue.

He takes a moment to ponder that. “Isn’t there plenty of waiting on missions?”

“It’s a different kind,” she says. “Waiting for the right moment means constantly watching, listening, judging for the exact conditions. Or you can go through the plan again, with the team or in your head, run through potential scenarios, check for the latest intel. There’s plenty to do in that kind of wait. But this kind, where you sit around for hours with nothing to do, nothing to plan, nothing to distract from the tension…”

“What do you want to do then?” He’s never heard her talk about herself so much, and he wants it to continue as long as she’s willing.

She rolls her eyes. “We can’t do what I want to do. Stark would yell at us if we sparred in your room, and my single room is a bit small. Sparring against me in public would probably land you in jail for assaulting a woman. Second best option would be to go for a run, but running as a form of exercise doesn’t become popular for a few more decades yet.”

“Which is a shame,” Steve says. “I could really go a few miles right now.”

“Yeah.”

“So we need a distraction,” says Steve. “How about ice cream?”

Maria laughs. “Can we afford it?”

“Yes,” he replies, then at her look, adds “Just.”

She shakes her head as he leads the way into Central Park. “What’s going to happen if Stark doesn’t get the device to work, and we have no money left?”

Steve shrugs. “I can probably find work at the docks.”

“Would it be enough to support all three of us?”

“Depends how long we’re stuck here.”

There’s an ice cream vendor up ahead, just packing up for the day, and they each pick a flavour from the limited options he has on hand. Steve hands over ten cents to the man, and passes Maria’s cone to her.

“There’s a good view to the west if you don’t mind the walk,” he says as they move away.

“I’m not a native New Yorker, but that looks like rain to me,” Maria replies, and Steve looks up. The clouds do look threatening. 

“We have a little while I think,” he tells her. “Come on, the view is worth it.”

The breeze is picking up when they arrive, but the view is pretty good, much to Steve’s relief. He hasn’t been here for a while and thought his memory might have made more of it than it was worth, but as they look out across the lake and the trees, he finds himself feeling pretty contented. He sits down on the side of the grassy hill to finish off his ice cream, and Maria joins him a moment later.

“How are you feeling about… all this?” she asks, and he shrugs.

“Conflicted?” he says after a minute. “I don’t feel ready to leave this place, not really, but at the same time I feel guilty for sitting around here when there I things I should be doing back there.”

“Bucky,” Maria says, and he nods.

“Bucky.” Steve picks at the grass, decides he doesn’t want to talk about it. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you feeling about all of this?”

It’s Maria’s turn to shrug. “I don’t have any history or personal connections to this place. My family are from the West Coast, and I didn’t move to New York until a few years after joining SHIELD.”

Steve nods, and Maria finishes off her ice cream.

“I’ve liked it though,” she says. “Being here. Last time too. I think this period of time - and probably decades before it - are poorly remembered.”

“I’ve noticed that,” says Steve. “Everyone seems to expect me to fall over at the sight of a computer, or my head to explode if I see a gay couple indulge in some PDA.”

Maria snorts. “You use the term PDA?”

He grins. “I pick things up.”

She shakes her head. “I think the post-war period really coloured our view of the decades before it. Everything became more sombre, more conservative, and since then has slowly worked towards being more progressive again. So people assume the time before the war must have been even more conservative.”

“Plus, the only thing people seem to think of when you mention the Thirties is Prohibition and the Depression.”

“Prohibition, the Great Depression, and conservative values doesn’t sound much like a good time.”

“No, it does not,” agrees Steve. “But there was so much more here than that. There’s great music. And people as a whole are eternally optimistic, always looking for fun. And this is when all the ground work was done for your modern technology.”

“Stark wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without the technological advances that happened before he was born,” Maria agrees. 

There’s a moment of contented quiet, and Steve looks out across the park. There’s some ducks in the distance and the trees are swaying in the breeze, but there is no one else around.

“You’ve paid for everything for the last week, Steve,” Maria says.

Steve can’t help but chuckle. “I think that’s the thing Tony’s coping with the least.”

“And you paid for me last time we were here.”

Steve realises she’s getting at something, and turns to focus on her. “Yes?”

“If you’re interested, I’d like to return the favour when we get back.” Maria looks up at him, almost challenging him with her eyes, and Steve realises she’s nervous.

He smiles, keen to reassure her. “I’d like that. Quite a lot, actually.”

She smiles back, finally glancing away with a hint of relief. “Good.”

“I…” Steve pauses, realising he isn’t sure what he was about to say. He settles on “I’m glad you’re here.”

She quirks a smile. “Stark’s here too.”

He grins back. “Stark is the reason we have a problem. But if there had to be a problem, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

She smiles out at the view again and he wonders if she’s feeling as giddy as he is. They’re not children, to giggle in public and swing their joined hands back and forth, but right now he understands the urge.

“It really looks like it’s going to start raining any moment now,” Maria says.

Steve has to agree this time, so they head back. The back of Steve’s hand bumps against Maria’s as they walk.

* * *

The rain comes before they make it back to the hotel. They hurry up to Steve and Tony’s room, and Steve throws a towel at Maria and before grabbing one for himself.

“Where have you two been?” Tony demands. “I finished half an hour ago. You’re damn lucky I didn’t just go and leave you both stranded here.”

Steve gives Tony a disbelieving look. “You’re too good a man for that, Tony.”

He splutters and points a finger at Steve. “You obviously don’t know me as well as you think. Now hurry up and grab your stuff so we can go.”

Steve realises for the first time that none of Stark’s few belongings are scattered around the room - there’s just a small suitcase on the bed. “Now?”

“No time like the present.”

“I agree,” says Maria. “But I want a shower, and I want to be wearing my own clothes. No offence,” she says to Steve. “But I’d rather be wearing pants, just in case.”

“None taken,” Steve replies, while Tony snorts.

“Nothing’s going to go wrong. I made it the first time, and I made it again. It’ll be fine.”

Maria frowns at him. “So all the wires are the same gauge as before?”

“Well…”

“And the stone piece is the same size as the other one?”

“Uh,” says Tony, but she cuts him off again.

“And the circuit board is identical to the last one? And you used all the same tools this time as before? And I’m sure you didn’t have Jarvis’ help at any stage in making the first one, right? No simulations, or precision cutting techniques?”

“Fine, alright!” Tony yells, and Steve feels kinda bad for him. Their fate basically rests on his shoulders after all, and genius or not, he’s got to be feeling the pressure. “You’re right, it’s not identical,” Tony continues. “But the numbers work, it’s damn well the best shot we’ve got, and I can’t sit around here waiting any longer. If there’s a problem, we’re not going to know until after we try it, so we might as well try it.”

Maria nods. “I get it, Stark. The best chance we’ve got is the one we’ve gotta take. But - given there’s a chance, however small, of things going wrong - I’d like a shower and dry, practical clothes. _Then_ we can go.”

She heads back to her own room, and Steve follows her lead, gathering his modern clothes and heading to the bathroom. 

Half an hour later they’re ready to go. They’re wearing the coats Steve bought them over their modern clothes to avoid attention, and their other clothes and few possessions are in the hard cases that are common to the time - along with the device. Steve leaves the last of his money on the dresser. They had cut it pretty fine, financially speaking, so it’s not a huge tip but it’s better than nothing. Especially since they’re sneaking out in the middle of the night.

Just like last time, the trio is quiet as they make their way back to Grand Central Terminal, but there’s a strong feeling of tension that wasn’t there before. The subway runs all night but the main terminal is practically deserted, and they have no trouble getting to the right platform.

They arrive almost too quickly, and Steve fights the urge to delay this moment by a minute, or an hour, or a day. A few days ago he was sad but ready to face the future. Now it feels like it’s being ripped away without warning.

But then Maria takes his hand, and it’s not so hard after all. He nods, and she raises their hands up for Tony to reach over to them.

“Here goes nothing,” he says, looking as nervous as Steve feels, and presses the button.

Everything goes white, then fades back in again. 

They’re still in the train station.

“Did it work?” Tony asks.

Steve frowns. “It always took me back to your workshop before.”

“Shhh,” Maria hisses, and they follow her eye line to some people further up an adjacent platform. The people haven’t noticed them, but… “That’s modern dress,” says Maria. “And that girl has an iPod.”

“And the guy has a cell phone,” says Steve. “Good work, Tony.” He claps the other man on the shoulder and doesn’t even feel bad when he stumbles a bit. 

“Well, I did say it would be fine,” Tony says, but the tone is more pleased than smug.

They make their way out of the terminal and into bright afternoon sunshine. Everything looks exactly as they had left it a few days earlier: the same advertisements and buses and cars and clothing and technology. Even the Clearance Sale sign of the bookstore Steve passes.

They grin at each other, giddy with relief, as they head for one of Stark Tower’s side entrances. Jarvis speaks as soon as they enter the lift, not even waiting for the doors to shut on the outside world like he normally would.

“I must say it is a relief to see all three of you safe and well. I was immediately concerned that you did not take the remote device and-”

“It’s all fine, Jarvis,” Tony says. He speaks with generous hand gestures and a wide grin. “Yes, there may have been a hiccup but I sorted it out in the end, because I’m a genius.”

Steve doesn’t even have to look over to know Maria is rolling her eyes.

“Yes sir, but-”

Tony claps his hands. “Right, let’s get this done. Jarvis, take us to the workshop. No, scratch that - the common floor. Coffee first, destroying time manipulation devices second.”

The lift is already in motion - Jarvis would assume they want to head up to the private upper levels of the Tower - but he confirms the order anyway. “The common floor it is. Sir, I must-”

“Wait, what’s the time?”

“Quarter past three in the afternoon.”

Tony crows in triumph. “Only gone a few minutes - probably just the time it took us to walk up from the station.” He grins at Steve and Maria. “So aside from that little matter of the location - which was _not_ that far off - am I good or am I good?”

“Stark, Jarvis is trying to tell us something,” Maria scolds him. “What is it, Jarvis?”

The lift slows as Jarvis speaks. “Thank you Ms Hill, but you can see for yourselves now.”

The lift doors open to an unusually crowded common room. There’s a beat of silence in which Steve has time to note the variety of people, maps, and laptops spread across the room, and two virtual screens on the windows, each displaying playback of four security feeds. 

“Sam, Natasha, Bruce,” Steve says in greeting.

“Coulson, May, Barton,” says Maria with a nod.

“Pepper, Rhodey; lovely to see you as always,” says Tony, leading them out of the lift.

“Where the hell have you three been?” Natasha demands.

Steve glances at Maria, who catches his eye but keeps her face carefully blank. Tony clears his throat.

“Uh, Jarvis?”

“ _Four days_ and a few minutes. Sir.”

Tony turns to Steve and Maria, looking sheepish. “Oops? Guess that, uh, took longer than we thought it would.”

“Considerably longer than it took without you,” Steve says.

Tony narrows his eyes. “I’m still mad at you for that, by the way. And you, Jarvis.”

“Can I just say how pleased I am sir, that you are here to be mad at me?” Jarvis replies smoothly.

Coulson clears his throat meaningfully, and Tony turns his attention back to the room. “Oh yes, where were we? You guys were having a party?”

“Yes,” says Coulson. “A search party, in fact, because three of our associates disappeared without a trace.” 

“And how was that going for you?”

“Not very well, actually. Did I mention the ‘without a trace’ part?” Coulson crosses his arms. “Care to tell us where you’ve been?”

“Um, let me think… _No._ ” Tony looks over to Steve and Maria. “What about you two? Feel like sharing?”

Steve swallows his smile, forcing himself to keep his face neutral. He shakes his head a little as he and Maria both answer in the negative.

Tony shrugs to their audience, arms wide. “Sorry, folks. None of us feel like talking. And now we’ve got that sorted, I need coffee. Anyone else want one?”


	13. August 1943 - Epilogue 1

August 1943  
26 years old

"You were aces tonight Stevie!" one of the girls calls as she bounces past him into the dressing room. Steve unclips his helmet and stows it in his locker.

"Thanks Eva - Herman might disagree though!"

Eva just laughs.

Herman is the poor sod who plays Hitler in the show, intentionally going onstage to earn jeers and hatred every night and some days. Most of the time they manage to get through the routine without incident, but sometimes - like tonight - Steve misjudges his strength and his reach, and Herman cops a proper one right on the chin.

Still, Herman doesn't hold it against him and Steve is getting the hang of it. Showbiz has it's ups and downs, and he still feels like he could be more useful in a real fight than on a stage, but Senator Brandt keeps showing him the sales figures and he has to agree they look good. Financing a war is no mean feat, or so the senator keeps telling him, and war bond sales are improving wherever the USO tours. And he's getting better at playing his role. He’s had the lines memorised for a while now, and while the girls keep telling him he should "play it bigger, Stevie!" he is certainly a lot more confident than when he started.

"Oh Stevie! Maggie and Eva and I want to check out that little bar across the street in about fifteen minutes. Did you want to come?" asks Petra, already changed and heading out again.

"Sure," he says, "I'll meet you out front?"

"See you there, sugar!"

Early on, Steve had only accepted their offers about half the time, until he noticed that the girls sometimes didn’t go out if he declined, and one of them eventually confided that they felt safer when he was with them. After all, they were on tour, passing through towns and cities where they didn't know the people or which establishments were the reputable ones. So now Steve tried to make it along most nights, and nurse a few drinks. His very presence seemed to ward off trouble, and it was a rare occasion when he actually had to stop a fella from being troublesome. So he didn’t mind. The girls were fun and friendly, happy to include him when he was feeling sociable and content to let him sit quietly when he wasn’t. 

Often he’d keep a pencil in his pocket, and find a scrap of paper to sketch on while the girls chatted over their drinks. It hadn’t taken them long to realise he had some skills in the area, and a few had even offered to pose for him in their costumes, between rehearsals or on a rare day off. He had blushed initially, but taken a couple up on the offer later, and now all of them intended to have a turn at ‘being Stevie’s muse’.

All in all, things could be worse, Steve thinks as he finishes changing. He turns to take his costume back to his locker, and catches movement at the other end of the room, surprised to find himself thinking ‘ _Uncle?!_ ’

He does a double take and realises it’s his own reflection in a mirror. He feels a little silly, but then looks again.

In an average suit, he looks just like Uncle. Exactly like Uncle.

He walks over to the mirror, watching his legs, his hips, judging the movement. It’s Uncle, all over. When he gets close, he studies his face, his shoulders. He’s stared at himself in the mirror a hundred times since the serum, but now he’s looking for - and at - someone else.

It’s been a few years since he saw the face, but he’s sure, within moments.

He _is_ Uncle. The smart, strong, confident mentor of his childhood, with a secretive job that takes involves a lot of travel. He is that man. Or will be.

He wonders if he should be more surprised or confused about the revelation, but Steve’s always grasped concepts easily, and his experience with the serum has only gone to prove that anything is possible. Why not this?

What is this even? _Time travel?_ It’s the only thing he can think of that would allow his current self to visit his teenage self, even if the when and how are entirely unanswerable.

“Stevie? You coming?” calls Eva, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yeah, on my way,” he yells back. He takes one more look at himself, as if to prove it’s still true. The face in the mirror is still Uncle’s.

Then he smiles, and goes to enjoy a night out.


	14. 2014 - Epilogue 2

2014

Steve folds the shirt and puts it in the box, then puts his wallet on top. He considers the small stack of sketchbooks on the desk next to him - they don’t need to be put away, necessarily; maybe they could go back to the Smithsonian collection.

The lift outside his door opens, and he turns in time to see Tony stop and lean against his doorway.

“Hey Cap. Packing up?”

“Yeah, can’t see myself needing this stuff again. Unless you’re planning a Thirties-themed party?”

Tony chuckles. “It could be arranged. Maybe we could do a murder mystery. Team bonding exercise.”

Steve decides to leave the sketchbooks for now. “How did you go with the… you-know-what?”

“All done. The generic parts are spread around the workshop ready to be used in whatever I do next. The key elements have been destroyed. I had Jarvis make subtle but important alterations to the plans before he deleted the files, so in the extremely unlikely event that someone ever gets hold of them, they won’t work anyway. Hacked and deleted all the CCTV footage of us returning from Grand Central Terminal, too, no need to thank me.”

“And the stone?”

“The stone, and the two small pieces, have been placed in a display cabinet outside Pepper’s office on the Corporate Level.”

“That’s it?”

Tony shrugs. “Sure. I’ve learned that if you lock something up where no one can see it, people will assume it has more than face value. Especially if I’m the person hiding it. But if I put it on display, it’s just a pretty, if expensive, gemstone.”

Steve must have looked unconvinced, because Tony sighs and adds: “If it makes you feel better, I’ll add a card identifying it as an unusual type of sapphire.”

Maybe he’s worrying too much. He grabs the box off the desk and walks over to place it in the bottom of the linen cupboard. “Did you work out why we got back late?”

“That was the easy bit,” Tony says, moving from his post against the door to drop onto Steve’s couch instead. “Jarvis scanned the new remote and yeah, there was quite a few differences. The electrical components weren’t nearly as precise, for obvious reasons, and of course the stone was smaller. Both of those together seems to have added up to our unexpected four day delay.”

“And has Maria said ‘I told you so’?”

“Several times. It’s like she’s forgotten who her employer is.”

Steve laughs. “If I remember rightly, Pepper runs the company.”

“I just keep on regretting that decision."

Steve kicks the linen cupboard door closed behind him and goes back to grab his wallet from the desk. The new wallet, that is, the one with recent currency in it. He glances as the sketchbooks again.

“Tony, I… I may have looked up your father when we got back.” When he turns to look, Tony’s grin has vanished, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all, but he’s started now and he might as well barrel on. “I’m sorry we seem to have known two different men.”

“Two things, Cap: please call him Howard, and let’s not talk about this.”

“Just let me say one thing,” Steve asks, and though Tony glances at the door, he doesn’t actually stand. “I have heard that a lot of people say you’re very similar to him, and I just wanted you to know that - to me, at least - you’re quite different from each other.” There’s a pause, and Tony’s just sitting there looking at him, and Steve feels a sudden urge to explain himself better. “I mean, I can see why people think that, in broad terms there are obvious comparisons to be made, but when you get to the details of who each of you are, I think-”

“Cap, I think that’s probably the nicest compliment I’ve ever received,” Tony says, and while his voice sounds normal he looks slightly shell-shocked.

Steve’s relieved, and pleased that he spoke up after all. “You’re welcome.”

“We have another point of contention to discuss, however.” Tony leans forward, wagging a finger at Steve. “Do. Not. Ever. Touch my projects without permission.”

Steve’s mildly surprised that this is still something Tony feels the need to say. His demeanour suggests he’s over the minor betrayal, but he keeps bringing the topic up again. “Is there another story here I should be asking for?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “No. Or yes, but no, you shouldn’t ask.”

Steve just waits, until Tony rolls his eyes and leans back into the couch again. “I’m not telling it. But I’m sure Jarvis will fill you in later, traitor that he is.”

“I’m hurt, sir,” says Jarvis, but Tony just makes an obscene gesture at the air.

Steve shakes his head. “So something happened, and now you won’t share your toys with the other kids.”

Tony frowns. “That’s being insultingly light about it, but yes. It boils down to: It’s not personal, but I don’t trust anyone with my stuff.”

“Fair enough,” says Steve.

“So you won’t do it again?”

“I can’t imagine another situation where I might need to,” he replies. 

It’s not an apology, and they both know it’s not even the promise Tony is asking for, but it does the job for now.

“So, how are you doing?” Tony asks. “Can’t be easy to have access to your history like that, and then be cut off from it again.”

Steve moves again, grabbing his shoes and sitting in the armchair across from Tony to put them on. “Better than I expected, actually. It’s funny, I’ve always thought - ever since I realised it was me who had visited myself all those times - I thought it was about him, the kid who didn’t have much family and who wanted someone to look up to.” He looks up at Tony, still observing him from the couch. “And I was right, I mean, I did get a lot out of all my time with Uncle. But I got just as much out of it now, going back and seeing my home and the familiar streets and… for a while, a long time really, after I woke up, I felt like my past had been ripped away from me. There was this dividing line in the middle and everything that felt recent was a long time ago. Everything in my head is either _before_ or _after_. This? This softened those edges a bit. Does that make sense?”

“Sure,” says Tony, like he’s some therapist with a patient, and Steve can’t help but be amused by his attitude. “It gave you a chance to say goodbye.”

“Yeah, I guess it did. I feel like - what’s the phrase - a sense of completion?”

“A sense of closure,” Tony corrects.

“That’s the one.” Steve checks himself again. He has his phone and wallet, the room is tidy - except for those sketchbooks, which he’ll decide about later. He stands and tilts his head towards the door. “C’mon, I’m heading out.”

Tony gets up and they head to the little landing area outside the lift. “Oh, while I remember - I think Bruce has figured it out.”

“What, really?”

“He asked me the other day about the coats and cases we had when we returned. I agreed we’d bought them while we were away; didn’t tell him anything else. But he’s a smart guy when he’s not angry.”

“And you had a not-so-hypothetical discussion about it with him, just a few weeks ago, so he’s more likely to think of it that the others.” 

Everyone has been on them about where they had been - still are, really, though it's dropped to snarky comments once or twice a day now. The three of them have been steadfast about not saying anything at all though - not whether they were safe or in danger, far away or nearby, not even whether they left of their own accord or were taken against their will. Steve hopes the questions and speculation will calm down soon. They had, at least, agreed to medical checks so the others were satisfied they hadn't been hurt while they were away.

“I’ve instructed Jarvis to tell Bruce a short version of the truth,” Stark says. “ _If_ he asks. Including that the device has been destroyed. But I thought I’d let you know in case he decides to ask one of us first.”

“You trust him that much?”

“You see any reason why I shouldn’t? ‘Cause I don’t.”

Steve shrugs. He doesn’t know Dr Banner all that well, but he likes him and if someone as untrusting as Tony is happy to tell him, he has no objections.

The lift arrives and they both step in. Tony asks for the common room and Steve asks for the underground carpark.

“The common floor is closer, I will take sir there first if you have no objections, Captain,” says Jarvis as the doors close.

“That’s fine,” Steve says, and the lift heads up.

“Where are you off to, anyway?” Stark asks.

Steve quirks a small grin. “I have a date.”

“A date? Do tell! Do I know the lucky lady? Or man,” he adds. “No judgement here, I bat for both teams myself.”

“I think you might have met her,” Steve says, and the lift is already stopping at the common floor. “I believe she’s your head of security.”

“Wait, Hill? You’re going on a date with _Maria Hill_?” Tony says, but the doors are opening behind him and he steps out on cue. "I _knew_ I should've put money on that!"

“Too late now,” Steve grins. “Gotta go, don’t want to keep her waiting.” The lift doors close and Jarvis sets the lift in motion again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos, comments, or just kept coming back to read the next chapter. This was something I laboured over for a long time, so please let me know if you liked how it turned out!


End file.
